The Finish Line
by iamthelightening
Summary: Stiles would be excited about college if it didn't feel like everything else was falling apart. With both Scott and Derek as Alphas the tension within the pack has reached an all-time high, and lately things between Stiles and Derek haven't been so great either. As if things couldn't get worse, a new pack has arrived in town. And they don't want to play nice. (Sequel to LMW)
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

Stiles cradled his right arm close to his chest, teeth gritted against the sickening pain as each step he took jarred his shoulder. He had to pause outside Derek's warehouse, leaning his forehead against the cool metal of the doors and taking several deep breaths as he fought against a wave of nausea. His mouth was already sour with the taste of vomit and he refused to let himself puke again. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction. Fuckers.

Swallowing hard, he scrubbed at his face with his left hand. He could feel dried blood flaking against his skin and the flesh around his left eye was swollen and tender. His throat was tight and hot and he knew he was close to tears. Stiles clenched his jaw and pulled open the heavy door to step inside the cavernous space.

He moved as quickly as he could across the floor and towards the elevator. He was late.

"Stiles!" Scott's voice rang out as he bolted down the stairs. Stiles turned, flinching as he saw Scott's eyes go wide and horrified. "We smelled blood, I—" Scott broke off and hurried towards his best friend. "What happened?"

Stiles felt his throat close up and his eyes filled, tears falling before he could blink them away. Scott reached out and pulled Stiles towards him, careful of Stiles's obviously injured shoulder. Stiles pressed himself close to Scott's solid warmth and took a shuddering breath, reining himself back in. He wasn't going to break down, not with the entire pack upstairs.

Reluctantly he pulled away from Scott, swiping at the tears on his cheeks with his left hand. "Sorry."

"What happened?" Scott repeated, eyes roaming over Stiles's bruised face. "You look like someone—"

"Kicked the shit out of me? Yeah." Stiles couldn't keep the bitterness out of his voice. "Look, let's just go upstairs. That way everyone can hear this all at once." He avoided Scott's helping hand as they made their way to the elevator. "Are the rest of you already here?"

"Yeah," Scott's frown of worry was still firmly in place. "We were just waiting for you." He hit the button for Derek's floor and turned back to Stiles. "Let me look at your shoulder—"

"Leave it." Stiles jerked away from the touch, regretting the movement instantly as pain lanced bright and vicious, sending spots dancing in front of his eyes.

"Stiles." Scott's lips thinned and he no longer sounded like Stiles's concerned best friend, but like Scott-the-Alpha.

"It's fine."

"No, it's not."

"Come on, Scott." Stiles could feel his lips twist with irony as the familiar words rose unbidden, an echo from the past. "It's not even that bad." They tasted metallic on his tongue, like blood.

"_Stiles._"

The doors to the elevator opened before either of them could continue. Stiles shot Scott a look of warning and Scott stepped back, arms raised to let Stiles walk unassisted into the first floor of Derek's loft.

Isaac was waiting by the entrance, but after a quick glance at Scott he backed off, letting Stiles move past him and into the room. Jackson sat on the loveseat, not bothering to look up from whatever game he was playing on his phone. Peter wasn't looking at Stiles from his seat in the armchair, but was watching Derek through heavy-lidded eyes.

Derek was standing with his back to the loft's large wall of windows, his arms crossed over his chest and a thunderous look on his face. Stiles met his gaze, eyes carefully blank, and spoke.

"I have a message."

Derek raised an eyebrow and waited.

Stiles looked away, unable to maintain eye contact as his cheeks flushed hotly with shame. He felt weak and useless and _human_. Self-loathing rose in his throat like bile and he swallowed it back before speaking, voice empty and colourless. "Marcus wants you to know this is only the beginning."

Voices erupted. Everyone was talking at once, except for Derek, who moved forward to cup Stiles's chin in his hand, forcing Stiles to look up at him.

"Marcus," Derek repeated, deliberately, "Who the hell is Marcus?"

Stiles tried to pull away but the pain rolled, low and nauseating, through his stomach, making his knees buckle and his face pale as sweat beaded on his upper lip. It was only Derek's grip on him that kept him upright.

Scott was at his side in an instant, eyes flaring red as he elbowed Derek back and led Stiles, his lips pressed tight to hide a whimper, over to the couch where he eased him down to the cushions. Derek's eyes took on a deep reddish hue to match Scott's as he followed.

"Did _Marcus_," Derek forced the name around gritted teeth. "Do this?"

"Let me look at his arm," Scott's words were barely audible around a growl. "He's about to fucking pass out, Derek. Your questions can wait."

"No," Derek said firmly. "They can't." He met Scott's challenging stare and for a moment the tension in the room was enough to make even Jackson shut up.

"Derek is right," Peter spoke up from his armchair, leaning forward on his elbows. "Before anything else, we need to know the extent of this threat."

"Stiles's arm—"

"Can wait five more minutes." The cold fury in Derek's stare brooked no argument.

Stiles could feel Scott's fingers where they rested against his skin sharpen and he spoke before Scott could do anything stupid—or _stupider_, rather. "Let me tell him, Scott."

Scott swore crudely under his breath and stepped back, hands curling into angry fists at his sides. "Fine. Do what you want."

Stiles ignored him and turned his attention back to Derek. Derek's gaze was still hard and furious. After a brief second, Stiles dropped his eyes, staring at the coffee table as he spoke. "I was walking over after dropping the jeep off." His father had insisted on a tune-up before Stiles started college at the beginning of the next week. "And this couple stopped me. I thought they just needed directions or something, but then—" Well, then a fist had slammed brutally into the side of his face and before Stiles could even register the pain blossoming around his eye or the concrete rushing up to meet him, he'd had the air plowed out of him as the guy's foot drove into his stomach. "They jumped me. Werewolves."

Gulping desperately for air, Stiles had curled into a ball, thinking only about protecting himself from another kick, but he'd been hauled up and punched again, and then again. The woman had grabbed his wrist in a hand that had gone wicked with claws and yanked him up to his knees, twisting until Stiles had cried out and stopped struggling. The pain had been excruciating and Stiles could feel himself start to sway, spiraling into unconsciousness. Just before he would have passed out the man had said the woman's name—Stiles hadn't been able to catch it, hadn't been able to hear anything but the pounding of his pulse in his ears—and her grip had loosened slightly.

"They said they had a message for my Alpha." He'd been so dazed, helpless and bewildered, like a dumb animal caught in a trap, unable to understand _why_ it was hurting. The man's words had filtered slowly through a haze of agony, Stiles too disoriented by the suddenness of the attack and the intensity of the pain for his brain to work at its usual speed. "I don't think they knew about Scott, too. They just said that I had to tell my Alpha." They'd told Stiles what to say, and when Stiles had refused to repeat it and spat a mouthful of blood and saliva onto the guy's shoes he had nodded to the woman behind him. Stiles had felt the moment his shoulder was pulled out of its socket. That was when he'd thrown up.

"That's it? That was the message? Just 'Marcus wants you to know this is only the beginning'?" Peter asked.

"That's it." Stiles said bitterly. He'd had to repeat it back to the guy five times, his throat raw from vomit and his whole body trembling from the pain in his shoulder. Once the man had been satisfied he'd given the woman another nod and she'd released Stiles, shoving him to the ground where he'd lay, panting, as they walked away.

"Can I look at his shoulder now?" Scott asked the room at large. His eyes had gone back to their normal human colour, but they were still dark with anger. When no one said anything, he shouldered past Derek and without preamble ripped open Stiles's t-shirt at the neck, baring the swollen and discoloured skin. "It's dislocated. I'll have to pop it back in."

"Do you know what you're doing?" It was the first time since they'd heard Stiles approaching that Derek had expressed any sort of concern for his well-being, and Stiles's stomach clenched.

"Yeah, I mean, I've seen my mom do it before, and if we wait any longer it's only going to be worse." Scott's mouth was a grim line. Stiles's shoulder was already swollen enough that it would be agonizing. "Jackson, get off your phone and come give me a hand."

"I can't believe I came back from London for this," Jackson muttered under his breath, but he got up and moved over to Stiles.

"Hold him still."

Stiles chanced a look up at Derek as Jackson's hands clamped down on him, one on his thigh and one on his uninjured shoulder, but Derek had turned his back and was talking to Peter in a low voice. Stiles tried not to care, focusing back on Scott who was speaking to him.

"Okay, I'm going to pop it back in on 'three'. It's going to hurt, so try not to bite through your tongue or anything."

Stiles swallowed and nodded his head.

Scott placed one hand on the front of Stiles's injured shoulder and the other against his back. Stiles took a deep breath as Scott started to count.

"One." And he wrenched Stiles's shoulder back into place.

"FUCK!" Stiles hollered and nearly slid off the couch. But now that his shoulder was back where it belonged it didn't hurt half as much as it had previously. "I thought you were counting to _three_!" He rounded on Scott. "That wasn't _three_!"

"Sorry," Scott shrugged. "I didn't want you to tense up. That would have made it worse."

Still scowling, Stiles gingerly rotated his shoulder. It was going to be sore for days, he was pretty sure of that, but at least he could move it without feeling like he was going to puke. "Thanks," he said grudgingly.

"Don't," Scott responded darkly, shooting a look at Derek. "It's our fault someone hurt you in the first place."

Derek's back tensed and he turned to face them. He ignored Scott's comment. "So you never saw this 'Marcus'?"

"No," Stiles returned shortly, finally managing to meet Derek's steely gaze. He knew he sounded pissed, and that would be because he was. Derek had been distant for weeks now and Stiles couldn't figure out what had changed between them. At first he'd thought it was because he was getting ready to leave for college—but it wasn't like he was going out of state or anything. He, Scott, Isaac, and Jackson were all going to the community college a town over. It was barely an hour away from Beacon Hills. It wasn't like he was never going to see Derek again. It wasn't like Stiles going to college meant they had to break up.

Or, whatever.

"Is there _anything_ helpful you can tell us?" The derision in Derek's voice set Stiles's teeth on edge.

"I'm sorry I wasn't able to play twenty-questions with the assholes who—"

"Stop it." Isaac steeled himself when two sets of furious eyes turned to him. "Do you really want to fight about this, or do you want to try and figure out who did this to you?" He directed the last part to Stiles.

Stiles blew out an angry breath. Normally Stiles appreciated Isaac's calm demeanor, but tonight it was getting under his skin. He didn't want to be reasonable and collected. He wanted to yell and shout and shove at Derek until he broke through the layer of ice the Alpha had built between them.

But Isaac was right. There were more important things at stake than the state of Stiles's relationship. "I know they were both wolves. The guy's eyes went blue," just before he gave the woman the go ahead to pull Stiles's arm out of its socket, "And she grew claws. Wolf claws," he added before Jackson could ask, "Not Kanima claws."

"Are you sure?" Derek asked.

"Yes, I'm sure," Stiles snapped. He knew the difference.

"But neither of them was Marcus?" Peter interjected, eyes wary on Derek's stormy face.

"No." Stiles's shoulder had begun to ache, throbbing with each beat of his pulse, and all he wanted was a handful of painkillers or a stiff drink. Possibly both. More than either of those things though, he wanted Derek to _look_ at him. Not through him or around him, but _at_ him. "He wasn't an Alpha, and she, well… 'Marcus' is hardly a female name."

"Great, Stiles. Very useful information."

Derek hadn't dropped his sarcastic tone, and Stiles had to bite back several vicious remarks that were on the tip of his tongue. He did not want to get into it with Derek in front of the entire pack, but Derek was making it nearly impossible for Stiles to keep his mouth shut.

Scott stepped in—literally—between the two of them. "Shut it, Derek," he said quietly. "We know a lot more than we knew a couple hours ago. If it weren't for Stiles—"

_Getting the shit kicked out of me_, Stiles thought darkly, resisting the urge to prod at his probably black eye as it too began to throb with his pulse.

"—we wouldn't even know there was another pack in town."

"Really?" Derek raised an eyebrow. "Because it looks like they just targeted the weakest member of our pack. I hardly think Stiles did anything special."

Stiles's mouth fell open, shock and hurt rendering him speechless.

Scott rounded on Derek. "If you're not going to do anything but bitch you can leave. Now." His eyes flashed dangerously.

Derek's hands flexed into claws at his side. "We're in my house, if anyone leaves it's not going to be me."

"Enough!" Now it was Peter who stood up and strode between the two Alphas, shoving them back. "If all we're going to do is fight amongst ourselves, we've done the work for our enemy."

Neither Derek nor Scott moved, still glaring at each other with undisguised animosity.

"We know several things—thanks to Stiles," Peter continued. "We know that there's another pack in town, we know that they are at least three members strong, and we know that they are prepared to fight dirty. It seems like this Marcus has his eye on this territory and doesn't intend to challenge Derek for it in any official capacity. Yes, _Derek_," he added when Scott looked about to object. "We've kept your nature as a 'true Alpha' a secret from everyone outside the pack because others would see it as a sign of vulnerability."

"Why?" Isaac spoke without thinking, but gamely continued when everyone turned to look at him. "Two is better than one, right?"

"No." Derek's voice was hard. "It's not. Because this happens," he gestured between himself and Scott. "It divides a pack. Everything is a power struggle when there's no defined leader."

"Wonderful." Jackson rolled his eyes and leaned back against the couch, folding his arms over his chest. "It's nice to know there's a reason for how dysfunctional we are."

"Shut up, Jackson," both Derek and Scott growled at once.

"We need to be on the same page about this." Peter focused back on the two Alphas. "We've had a quiet year since the guy with the GHB—"

"Ray," Stiles muttered, his collarbone itching where he had four parallel lines of scar tissue, courtesy of a drugged Isaac trying to tear his throat out a year before. As though he could hear the direction of Stiles's thoughts, Isaac sent Stiles an apologetic grimace from the loveseat where he'd taken Jackson's earlier seat.

"—and we've let ourselves get lazy. We can't afford that anymore."

"What do we do?" Jackson asked. "Hunt this guy down?"

"Ideally, yes, but it's not as simple as that." Peter settled back in his chair, comfortable and relaxed now that they were all looking to him for answers. Stiles tried not to let his irritation show on his face.

"Why not?" Jackson persisted. "We can track them. Stiles reeks."

"I what?"

"You reek." Jackson looked over, his nose wrinkled in distain.

"We can smell them on you," Isaac explained with a reproachful look at Jackson. "The two of them."

Stiles couldn't suppress a slight shudder at that, his skin crawling. He had the sudden, desperate urge for a shower and suspected he wouldn't feel clean until he'd got one. "Ugh."

"So we follow them back to whatever hole they crawled out of." Scott looked between Peter and Derek. "How is that not simple?"

"We don't know how many of them there are. We don't know if they expect us to do exactly that and therefore have set up a trap. We don't know anything about 'Marcus' or what kind of power he has at his disposal." Peter was ticking his points off with his fingers and Stiles got the distinct impression that he was enjoying himself a little too much.

"Then 'google' him," Jackson rolled his eyes. "Isn't that the whole point of your dumb website?"

"Yes, and I'll look into it, but that will take some time. There are thousands of us in the States." Peter shrugged, apparently unconcerned. "Right now, there's nothing we can do."

"Nothing we can do?" Scott flared up again. "We can't just let them beat up Stiles and do _nothing_."

"Yes, we can." Derek's voice was flat. "Stiles was a message. One they expect us to react to. And so, we do nothing."

"That's bullshit."

"That's strategy." Derek crossed his arms over his chest. "You're letting your emotions dictate your actions. You can't afford to do that as an Alpha."

This was a problem Derek clearly didn't have. Stiles tried not to let that fact sting, but found himself unable to meet anyone's eyes. He stared fixedly at the coffee table in front of him. That sick feeling of shame was back, oily and cold in his chest. This was the second time someone had used him as a punching bag to send a message. This was second time he'd been helpless and humiliated and sent back to someone else wearing bruises like Braille on his skin.

"The four of you are leaving at the end of the week. Terrace Bay is still a part of our territory, but Beacon Hills is the centre. Since they don't know about Scott, their focus should remain here, on me. Peter and I will find out what we can about them and then we will make a decision about what's to be done."

Scott glared but apparently couldn't find fault in Derek's plan. Such as it was.

"Don't you think they'll come after you?" Isaac looked at Derek, frowning. "It's not like they can't track you back here. What's to stop them from breaking in and…" he left his sentence unfinished, concern furrowing his brow.

"Derek and I know how to take care of ourselves. It will be easier, honestly, without the four of you around." Peter glanced, perhaps unconsciously, at Stiles. "We won't be distracted worrying about anyone else's safety."

Stiles refused to look up but he could feel his cheeks heat. His shoulder was beginning to stiffen up and, every time he moved, his ribs screamed in protest. Now that the anger and adrenaline had faded, he just felt exhausted. He could feel his earlier tears threaten to resurface, and Stiles didn't think he had the energy to fight them again.

Turning his face away from the pack he stood up, wincing. "I'm going to take a shower." They could continue discussing strategy without him. For once, he found he didn't care.

"Do you want—"

"No." Stiles didn't bother to look at Scott, just limped over to the stairs. After a pause, he could hear their conversation resume, and he tuned it out, concentrating on griping the iron handrail and getting up one step at a time until he reached the door to Derek's loft.

His head was beginning to pound. When he finally closed the door behind himself, he leaned against it for a minute, closing his eyes and trying to force the tension out of his muscles. He should be used to the frailty of his human body by now. Over the last year, he'd spent more time at the gym, built up more muscle and stamina, but none of that mattered against opponents that could literally tear him limb from limb without breaking a sweat.

And it wasn't exactly like any of that was a surprise to him, so why was he standing here full of self-pity? With a groan, Stiles pushed himself off the door and headed into the bedroom. He'd take a handful of Advil, have a long, hot shower, and pull himself together.

* * *

Half an hour later, Stiles stepped out of the bathroom in a billow of steam and padded naked through Derek's room to the dresser. He opened the top drawer and, despite the dull pain from his various injuries, he couldn't help a smile. As usual, the haphazard mess of clothes he'd stuffed in there the last time he'd stayed the night had reappeared freshly washed and neatly folded. Stiles grabbed a pair of pajama bottoms and pulled them on, shaking his head in bemusement. Was there anyone else in the world who folded pajamas? He debated a shirt but figured it'd be too much of a hassle to try and get on with his shoulder so stiff. Besides, it was warm enough in the loft that he didn't really need one.

Barefoot, he wandered out of the bedroom to find Derek sitting on the couch, a large glass of wine in his hand and a brooding look on his face. Stiles suppressed a sigh, and Derek looked up. His lips thinned as he took in the colourful bruises over Stiles's ribs and face, and the swelling of his shoulder.

"Stiles—"

"Don't," Stiles said wearily. "I don't want to fight, okay?"

Derek met Stiles's gaze and his expression softened. "Okay."

Stiles crossed the room and crawled onto the couch, sliding under Derek's arm. He could hear Derek's heartbeat, strong and steady against his ear where his head lay on Derek's chest. Derek was warm and solid through the thin fabric of his shirt and Stiles slid his arm over Derek's stomach, pressing himself in closer. After a moment, Derek's arm came down, gentle on Stiles's shoulder, and held him.

"I'm sorry," Stiles murmured, voice muffled and barely audible. He wasn't even sure what he was sorry for—except that he couldn't bear the tension between them anymore.

"Don't be," Derek said, thumb stroking lightly over the bare skin of Stiles's arm.

For the first time in days, Stiles felt the knot of anxiety he'd been carrying around in his chest ease. He knew he and Derek had been at odds lately, butting heads over stupid, trivial things. Derek had been busy and preoccupied whenever Stiles had dropped by, and despite the fact that Stiles still stayed over once a week or so, he couldn't remember the last time they'd sat like this—just, well, cuddling. They'd had sex, sure, and that had been even hotter than normal—not that they didn't always have hot sex, because boy, did they ever, but lately it had been extra intense. Stiles definitely wasn't complaining about that, but there had been an edge of something sharp to it… something desperate, maybe? Like Derek had been trying to lose himself in Stiles.

That was probably a stupid thought, and Stiles was probably an idiot for overanalyzing their incredible sex life. Only, Derek had hardly touched him at all this week. Until now.

This was _good_ though. This was right. Derek's chest moved evenly with his breathing and Stiles could feel his own breathing slow to match Derek's, his eyelids growing heavy under the soothing and familiar rhythm. Stiles hadn't realized how much he missed their quiet moments together, watching a movie or reading, or just sitting on the couch enjoying one of Derek's ridiculously expensive bottles of wine. He knew things had been off between them, but maybe it really was just that Stiles was leaving for college. He thought that Derek was confident enough in their relationship to know nothing would change—Stiles was sure of that—but maybe he'd been taking Derek's confidence for granted. It was possible, just possible, that under the big, gruff, Alpha-wolf exterior Derek was the teensiest bit insecure. Actually, that made a whole lot of sense now that Stiles was thinking about it.

That was another thing he had Kate to thank for, he was sure. He pushed back the instant and violent loathing that rose whenever he thought of her. She was dead, after all, and there was nothing Stiles could do about it either way.

"College isn't going to change anything, you know that, right?" He pushed himself up a bit, twisting to see Derek's face. "I won't be that far away. We'll still be… us."

Derek smiled, arm tightening briefly around Stiles before he pulled away and stood up, extending his hand. "Come on, let's get you to bed."

It didn't escape Stiles's notice that Derek had sidestepped the issue, but he placed his hand in Derek's and let the werewolf help him up. Stiles was exhausted and he could use the sleep. Besides, there'd be plenty of time tomorrow to talk. Any kind of discussion of feelings and emotions with Derek was like pulling teeth—possibly worse. It would be easier tomorrow when he had his energy back.

Yawning, he linked his fingers with Derek's and followed him into the bedroom.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

When Stiles woke up, his face was pressed into a wet cloth, which he pried away with a noise of disgust. Derek had insisted he take an ice pack with him to bed, because of his dislocated shoulder—now much less dislocated, but still sore, he discovered when he pushed himself up—and at some point in the night the ice pack had stopped being ice and was now just uncomfortably damp. Scrubbing at his face, Stiles looked around the room, but could see no sign of Derek. Picking up the cloth, he crawled regretfully out of the giant bed and headed into the bathroom. He'd have liked to sleep for a couple more hours, the digital clock on the nightstand telling him that it was only 8:16 am, but he and Derek needed to talk. He needed to hear Derek say that things were okay, and that he would get over whatever weird funk he was in.

Coming out of the bathroom a few minutes later, Stiles hiked his pajama pants up and grabbed a t-shirt from the drawer, tugging it over his head with a wince. He made his way towards the kitchen. He could smell the hot scent of coffee and made a low, obscene moan of pleasure. Maybe the talk could wait until _after_ Stiles showed Derek how grateful he was for the coffee. "I'm going to have a big sip of that coffee and them I'm going to get on my knees and—Isaac." Stiles rounded the corner and stared blankly at the werewolf perched on one of the kitchen's bar stools, a wicked grin on his face.

"You're going to get on your knees and…?" Isaac prompted, raising an eyebrow.

Stiles felt his cheeks flush bright pink and he gave an awkward cough, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I thought you were Derek."

"Sorry to disappoint." Isaac was still grinning and Stiles scowled, moving into the kitchen to grab a mug from the cupboard and pouring himself a large cup of coffee. He dumped in several spoonfuls of sugar and ducked into the fridge for cream.

"Where is he?" Stiles asked when he settled onto a stool across from Isaac, taking a drink of the coffee. It wasn't as good as when Derek made it. He tried to suppress his annoyance.

"Out with Peter."

Ooookay. "And so you are here, why, exactly?" Apparently he wasn't doing that good a job of hiding said annoyance because he could see that he was getting Isaac's back up.

"Derek asked me to come."

"Derek asked you to come over at," Stiles glanced over to check the clock on the microwave, "Eight twenty-five in the morning to, what, make me coffee?"

"No, he asked me to come over at seven am to make sure you got back home okay. I made coffee because I wanted some coffee." Isaac coolly took a sip from his mug. "You're welcome."

Stiles opened his mouth, closed it. Opened it again. "I'm sorry—you're here to babysit me?" He could hear the squeak of indignation in his voice but was too outraged to care. "Derek just, what, foisted me off on you?"

Isaac gave an elegant shrug, toying with the handle of his mug. "None of us want you to get hurt again. We agreed last night that one of us would keep an eye on you…"

"Like, 'at all times'?" This was fucking ridiculous. Stiles was going to tear Derek a new one as soon as he got back. Stiles wasn't some princess who needed to be locked away in a tower for his own safety.

"Well," Isaac had the grace to look faintly embarrassed. "Until we leave for Terrace Bay College."

"That's _four days_ from now!" Stiles spluttered. "No. There is no way. When is Derek back?"

Isaac was looking increasingly uncomfortable and he muttered something under his breath that was too quiet for Stiles to catch.

"When. Is. He. Back."

"I don't know." Isaac looked pained. "I don't think he was planning on coming back… he asked me to get you home."

"I—this is just—" Stiles was choking on his anger and he shoved away from the island, not caring that he slopped coffee all over the counter. "No. This isn't happening."

Isaac carefully stood. "Does that mean you're ready to go home?"

Stiles made an inarticulate noise of rage and stormed back into the bedroom.

When he came out again, fully dressed and fuming, he noticed that Isaac had cleaned up the mess he'd made and put away the mugs in the dishwasher. He felt a flash of guilt that Isaac had had to clean up after him, but he refused to let it distract him from how pissed he was.

It occurred to him, in a small, frightened part of his brain, that the reason he was reacting with such vehemence was because his only other option was to admit that Derek was avoiding him. If Derek had been heading out he could have woken Stiles up and dropped him off at home if he was so worried about Stiles walking back alone. But he hadn't. He'd left, apparently at seven in the morning, without even bothering to let Stiles know he was leaving. Like he was worried Stiles would press the conversation from last night (the one Derek had made sure they didn't have) and Derek thought it best if that didn't happen. If they didn't talk.

His mind skittered away from that thought.

"Come on," he snapped at Isaac, heading towards the front door.

Isaac said nothing, just slipped off the stool and followed Stiles out.

* * *

"Are you ready?"

Stiles turned around at the sound of his dad's voice, running a distracted hand through his hair. "Uh, yeah. Yeah I think so."

It was weird thinking that he was leaving in a couple of minutes. That he was going off to college and leaving his room and his house and his _dad_ behind. What was he going to do without his dad?

"You've got everything you need?" The Sheriff stepped around Stiles and into Stiles's bedroom, glancing around at the space that suddenly seemed so empty. Stiles was leaving his bed behind, but he was taking his desk and his dresser and half the posters from the walls and a good chunk of his DVD/video game/book collection with him. They all sat in boxes in the front hall waiting to be loaded up into the jeep.

"Yeah." Stiles stuffed his hands into his pockets and tried to swallow past the sudden lump in his throat.

"Good." His dad turned back and Stiles could see his eyes shining with unabashed tears. "I'm gonna miss you, kiddo."

"I—" Stiles's voice cracked. "I'm not going to be that far away." Just an hour. If traffic was good. He could come back on weekends if he wanted. His dad could come up and visit if work wasn't too busy.

He'd never even gone away to summer camp. He'd never spent more than one night at a time away from home. How was he supposed to spend months? Who was going to make sure there was enough toilet paper, or keep track of where Stiles left his keys, or bitch when Stiles hogged the TV watching a marathon of _Veronica Mars_ but then wind up making Stiles share the couch and his popcorn while they debated the merits of Logan vs. Piz?

Stiles crossed the room and wrapped his dad in a hug, burying his face in his dad's neck and inhaling the familiar scent of Ivory soap. The Sheriff returned the hug with a fierceness that made Stiles's own eyes fill with tears, and they stood there like that for a long moment before the Sheriff gave a gruff cough and stepped back, swiping at his eyes. "They're going to be here soon. We'd better start loading the jeep."

"I love you, Dad."

"I love you too." The Sheriff smiled and slung his arm around Stiles's shoulders. "Now, let's go get you off to college. From the sound of it," outside there were three short taps of a horn "Your friends are here."

Stiles blew out a breath. He could do this. He'd faced down death on multiple occasions. He was still sporting a sore shoulder and the faintest traces of a black eye from his last near-death (or near-maiming, at least) encounter. He could leave for college without blubbering like a little kid in front of everyone. "Right. Okay. I'm ready."

His dad gave his arm a squeeze and they headed downstairs.

"Stiles! Come on, let's go! Give me a hand with your crap." Scott's eyes were over-bright and his nose looked a little pink and Stiles was glad to see that he wasn't the only one who'd had a tearful goodbye with his parent.

"Oh my god, do you or do you not have werewolf super strength? I hardly think a box of books is going to kill you." Stiles shouldered past Scott and picked up his own box, grunting at the weight.

"Did you really need to bring an entire library? You know they'll have one at TBC."

"You're just jealous because I can read."

As Stiles headed out into the bright mid-morning sun the Sheriff stopped Scott at the door. "You take care of our boy," it was half a question, half a statement as they watched Stiles bitch at Isaac who was lounging against the jeep until Isaac heaved a sigh and headed towards them to help move boxes.

"Yes, sir." Scott's eyes went grim. "We're gonna keep him safe." The Sheriff nodded, but Scott knew he was still unhappy with Stiles leaving after what had happened earlier in the week. Stiles and his dad had had a huge fight about it when Stiles had come home battered and bruised, and afterwards they hadn't spoken for an entire day—a first for the two of them. Not for the first time, Scott felt a deep stab of guilt for getting Stiles involved in this supernatural crap.

Nodding to the Sheriff, he hefted the box and went to put it in the jeep. Derek was heading up the drive and a handful of minutes later the jeep was loaded and they were ready to go.

Isaac and Scott were taking Scott's mom's car and Derek and Stiles were in the jeep, the plan being for Derek to drive Melissa's car back to Beacon Hills when he returned in the morning. After one last, bruising hug from his father, Stiles clambered into the driver's seat beside Derek and pulled out of the driveway.

"You'll keep an eye on him, right?" Stiles asked Derek as he pointed the jeep in the direction of the highway.

"Yes."

"Thanks."

The silence between them stretched, awkward, and Stiles reached over and turned on the radio. _I knew you were trouble when you walked in, _Taylor Swift accused from the speakers. _So shame on me now_. Stiles's hands felt cold where they flexed on the steering wheel. This was the first time he'd seen Derek since the night he'd been beaten up. They'd hardly spoken since, either, Derek responding to Stiles's texts with short, one-word replies. After two days, Stiles had given up. He was at a loss for what to do. He didn't know what had changed and a part of him was afraid to ask.

If someone else had been in Stiles's current shoes, and they'd been asking Stiles's advice, Stiles would have told them (as gently as possible) that they should probably get out now before they got their ass dumped. But this was different. He and Derek weren't some dumb high school relationship that would dissolve painlessly when one of the participants went off to college. They were more than that. They'd been through too much for that.

They would figure this out and everything would go back to the way it was. Derek had never said as much, not in so many words, but Stiles _knew_ Derek loved him. He knew it like he knew Scott would never lie to him, not about anything important. He knew it like he knew Harry couldn't have defeated Voldemort without Hermione. It was just a fact of Stiles's life, and so, whatever Derek's issue was, they'd deal with it. Together. And maybe they'd fight and there would be a couple of shitty days, or a week, even, but in the end they'd be Stiles and Derek and as rock solid as they'd always been.

He let out a slow breath and let himself relax into the rhythm of driving. They'd get through this. They'd gotten through so much worse, and this was nothing in comparison. He was feeling better already, just being in the same car as Derek. One hand moved from the steering wheel to dip into his pocket and he brushed his fingertips over the small silver charm there. It was tiny, barely bigger than his thumbnail, and in the shape of a wolf with its head thrown back in a howl.

Derek had given the charm to him one night after Stiles had attempted to cook dinner in Derek's giant kitchen. Surprising them both, it hadn't been a total disaster. Stiles had made lemon ginger chicken with rice, and except for the fact that he used ground ginger instead of ginger root in the sauce, it had turned out okay. The ground ginger was a little too strong, making the sauce a little too bitter, but Derek had eaten everything on his plate and then gone back for seconds. The chicken had been edible, but it wasn't exactly seconds-worthy. Stiles had said as much, but Derek had protested that it was the best meal he'd had all week—a lie, since Derek had made a roast only days before—and that was when Stiles had been forced to admit to himself that he was completely, helplessly, idiotically in love with a werewolf.

Later, when Stiles lay sprawled and panting on Derek's bed, skin still flushed with the glow of orgasm, Derek had leaned over him and reached for something in the bedside table. Stiles had given a weak laugh and said that if Derek wanted to go for round two he'd be more than happy—just give a guy a minute or two to catch his breath. Derek had raised a skeptical eyebrow and leaned down, kissing Stiles with such languid heat that by the time Derek pulled back Stiles was making soft, needy sounds and was half hard again.

"Still need that minute or two?" Derek had asked, all innocence, save for the wicked gleam in his green eyes. Stiles had huffed out an indignant breath and tried to regain what was left of his dignity by keeping still—though the urge to continue rubbing up into Derek's sweat-slick skin was nearly overwhelming.

Derek had smirked, brushing a thumb over Stiles's kiss-swollen lips. "I got you something."

"What? Why?" Stiles had been so startled that he forgot about his dick for a moment and just stared up at Derek.

"I thought you might like it," Derek had said simply. Stiles had pushed himself up on his elbows and Derek placed the silver charm into the palm of his hand.

"Oh," Stiles had felt something warm and gooey expand in the centre of his chest, "It's a wolf." Despite how tiny the charm was, the detail was exquisite, the small wolf so lifelike that Stiles would hardly have been surprised if it had started to move. "Thank you," he said sincerely, looking back up at Derek. Derek—Mr. I-Can't-Express-My-Feelings, Heart-Of-Stone, Broody, Closed-Off, I-Am-The-Alpha Derek—had seen a little silver wolf charm and thought of Stiles. Stiles grinned, full on, delighted. "You got me a love token."

"I—" Derek had looked suddenly flustered, and Stiles grinned even wider.

"You did. You so did. Oh, my god. You're so into me," Stiles crowed, punching Derek's arm.

"Don't punch me." But despite the scowl on his face his cheeks were pink.

"What should I expect next? Ooh," Stiles had leaned forward eagerly. "Are you going to write me a poem? Or get my name tattooed over your heart? How about—"

"Stiles," Derek had growled, pushing Stiles back onto the bed, "Stop talking."

Stiles had opened his mouth, fully prepared to continue teasing, but Derek leaned down and closed his mouth around Stiles's cock. The flippant remark on the tip of Stiles's tongue died and he arched into the wet heat with a moan, his hand clenching so tightly around the pretty charm that it had left a bruise for days.

He had kept the silver wolf in his pocket since then. Totally dorky, but he liked it. He liked the surprising weight of it in his hand when he got bored or anxious and began to toy with it. He liked the reminder that he was on Derek's mind even when he wasn't with Derek. He liked the way his brain slowed down when he brushed his fingers over the cool metal.

Letting his tension out in a slow breath, Stiles focused on the highway in front of him and the music on the radio, trying to ignore the fact that Derek remained silent for the rest of the drive.

* * *

"Any requests?" Scott shouted up from the first floor of the house they were renting.

"Pepperoni with extra cheese," Stiles yelled back, leaning over the railing on the second floor. "And beer. Not that light crap Isaac likes—"

"Excuse me," Isaac objected.

"But real beer," Stiles continued, raising his voice over Isaac's protest. "Derek?" He turned back to look into the bedroom behind him. "Do you want anything?"

"No," Derek didn't look up from where he was assembling an Ikea bookshelf. "I'm fine."

"Don't forget—extra cheese!" Stiles shouted as he heard the front door shut. He supposed, what with werewolf hearing and all, he didn't really need to shout. But that was one thing he never could get used to. Super strength and fangs and glowing eyes, those he took in stride. But the hearing thing was just weird.

"You know you guys are still underage, right?" Derek asked when Stiles came back into the room.

"Well, yeah," Stiles plopped himself down on the carpet across from Derek, toying with the allen key. "But Lydia makes the best fake IDs."

Derek grunted, nailing the backboard of the bookcase in place. Stiles watched him silently, wondering what he was thinking. He could ask, he supposed. But the words felt like lead on his tongue and he realized that it wasn't easy between them anymore. Stiles used to be able to ramble on, stream-of-consciousness all filters between his brain and his mouth gone, and Derek would listen and nod and occasionally ask a question or give his opinion. Or call Stiles an idiot. But with love. Now though… now they sat, like the entire ride here, silent as strangers.

Abruptly Stiles got to his feet, walking to the large window on the other side of the room. He stared out, not really seeing the trees or the quiet street. He should say something. He should talk to Derek, ask what the hell was going on. But he was afraid of knowing the answer.

A noise behind him made him jump, and he turned around to see Derek pushing the bookcase up against the wall. It looked good, the white a nice contrast to the dark grey walls. It would look better once he'd filled it, of course, but he could do that tomorrow. Today was just for getting everything into the house and any of the major stuff—like the (also Ikea) beds for himself and Scott and Isaac set up.

"Thanks," Stiles walked closer. He had to do this. He had to get whatever fight they weren't having over with, so they could get back to how things were. "Derek—"

"I can't do this anymore, Stiles." Derek turned, lifting his eyes up to Stiles's face.

Stiles froze. There was something strange going on in his body. Everything felt numb, a shocky sort of cold creeping out from his stomach. Derek could be talking about anything. About building another bookcase. About having to share another double-cheese pepperoni pizza. It didn't have to mean…

"You can't do what?" Stiles's words sounded hollow even to his own ears. This wasn't happening. This was _not_ happening.

"This. Us."

The breath left Stiles in an uneven rush and his legs had turned to rubber. He licked his lips with a dry tongue and found himself shaking his head in denial. "Derek—"

"I'm sorry." Derek's gaze was steady on Stiles's.

Stiles took an unconscious step back, wrapping his arms around himself, as if that could protect him from the raw hurt that Derek's words were inflicting. As if they were blows he could ward off and deflect and if they didn't touch him they didn't count. This couldn't count. Stiles wouldn't let it. There had to be a _reason_.

"You're—" Stiles forced himself to swallow, cleared his throat. "You're lying." Yes, there it was. That was it. The relief made him dizzy and he choked back a laugh. Derek was a moron if he thought he could break up with Stiles to keep him safe or something. Because of course that was what this was about. Stiles got beat up and Derek thought it was his fault because Stiles was involved with him. So Derek figured he'd break up with Stiles, and Stiles would be safe. But that was stupid, and Stiles wouldn't let him.

"Stiles," Derek took a step towards him, something new in his eyes, an emotion Stiles couldn't place.

"You're lying," Stiles repeated, forcing the words out, his voice stronger. "Stop. You're not breaking up with me because of Marcus—"

Derek was shaking his head. Why was Derek shaking his head?

"This doesn't have anything to do with that."

"Oh, come on," Stiles scoffed. His heart was slamming in his chest, fast and frantic. Derek could hear that, he knew Derek could, but he ignored it and kept his voice firm. "This is about me getting hurt. Don't pretend it isn't."

"Stiles—"

"Stop saying my name like that!" Saying it like it hurt. Saying it like a mouthful of regret. "You're _lying_," Stiles insisted. "You're lying and you need to stop, you need to stop right now, I swear to god." For the first time since Peter had first offered Stiles the bite, Stiles wished with every fiber of his being that he was a werewolf. If he was a werewolf he could hear Derek's heartbeat like Derek could hear his. Could hear the lie and know that's all it was—a lie.

"I appreciate that you want to keep me safe," Stiles continued, stepping closer to Derek. "But this isn't going to do that. I'm not going to let you push me away because you think it's the right thing to do." Derek had to see that, had to see that Stiles was his and he was Stiles's and that's just the way it was going to be. Stiles's hand went unconsciously to his pocket and he closed his hand around the wolf charm. It steadied him and he took a slow breath.

Derek looked away and then back at Stiles, and suddenly Stiles recognized the emotion on his face, in his eyes. Pity.

No. No, it couldn't be that. There was no reason for Derek to look at him with pity in his eyes. Stiles could feel the colour drain from his face.

"I'm not lying," Derek said, gently. Softly.

"Yes, you are." Stiles refused to meet Derek's gaze. He couldn't. Derek was lying. Because if he wasn't, then this meant… this meant that Derek was done. Done with this. Done with Stiles. And Stiles couldn't believe that. "You're lying and because I'm a werewolf you know I can't tell and that's not _fair _Derek. That's not fucking fair. You can't _lie _to me."

Derek said nothing, just kept watching Stiles with that look of quiet pity.

"Scott will know," Stiles said with sudden resolve, heat flooding his limbs. "You can't lie to Scott." And Scott wouldn't lie to him. So they would wait for Scott to get back and Scott would take one look at Derek and tell him to stop being an idiot and Stiles would be pissed at Derek—pissed at him for a good, long while for scaring the shit out of him like this—but he'd let Derek make it up to him with really good sex and then they'd be fine and in a couple days they'd laugh about this.

"Don't bring Scott into this." Derek reached out a hand, but Stiles jerked back, avoiding it.

"Don't lie to me." He was angry now that the initial panicked terror had receded. Derek must have thought Stiles was an idiot if he thought Stiles would fall for this. "If you stop this now, I won't have to bring Scott into anything."

Derek's jaw clenched, grim, and he said nothing. Stiles balled his shaking hands into fists—why were they shaking?—and sat down on the bed across the room from Derek.

Outside, a car honked, the wind rustled the leaves of the tree outside the window, and the sun sank slowly towards the horizon. Stiles focused on the sunlight dappling over his blue comforter and tried, desperately, to slow the thundering of his pulse. Scott would be back soon, and then this whole goddamn thing would be over.

One way or another.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Finally, the sound of Scott's mom's car pulling into the driveway came through the open window. Stiles's entire body tensed and he forced himself to remain still as Isaac and Scott got out of the car, their voices muffled as they made their way up to the front door. There was movement out of the corner of his eye and Stiles looked to see Derek standing from where he'd taken a seat at Stiles's desk. Derek met Stiles's eyes and Stiles had to look away, throat closing.

The front door shut, and there was a beat of silence from downstairs. Stiles could only assume that Scott and Isaac had heard the stuttering beat of his heart and were unsure about how to proceed.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Derek asked, voice low and quiet even though it didn't matter. The two werewolves downstairs could hear everything.

Stiles stood up, facing Derek with whiskey-coloured eyes that were dark with anger. "Have you changed your mind?"

"No." The finality in his voice made Stiles's fingers clench, hands closing into fists that he wanted to slam into Derek's face.

"Scott," not looking away from Derek, Stiles directed his voice to the open door, "Could you please come upstairs."

There was a brief murmur of voices and then Stiles could hear the sound of Scott's footsteps on the stairs. A moment later he was at the door, eyes moving between Derek and Stiles.

"What's going on?" He asked hesitantly.

Stiles ignored the cold edge of panic that was making his chest tight, focused instead on how angry he was that Derek was putting him through this. Anger that bubbled hot and bright in his throat and made his words harsh and ugly when he spoke. "Derek is trying to break up with me."

Scott's eyes flew to Derek, who met Scott's gaze impassively.

"He says he's done, but he's lying," Stiles continued, venomously. "He's trying to keep me safe so he's lying. You can't let him lie to me."

"Stiles, I—"

"He loves me, Scott." Stiles interrupted his best friend, turning to him with his jaw clenched and stubborn. "He loves me, so he doesn't mean it. He loves me. So he's lying."

Scott blew out a slow breath, taking a step into the room. "What do you want me to do?"

"I want _you_," Stiles turned to Derek. "To say it. Say you don't love me. And then Scott can tell me you're lying and then we'll be done with this fucking charade. Got it?" He raised an eyebrow at Scott.

Scott nodded, his eyes locked with Derek's. There was a long stretch of silence, Stiles standing rigid and furious between them, until Derek's gaze broke away and rested gently on Stiles.

"I don't love you."

Stiles's fingers flinched at his sides, his only reaction to the words that he hadn't actually thought Derek would say. Numb, he turned to Scott, expectantly.

"I'm sorry, Stiles, I'm so sorry." Scott looked stricken and Stiles stared at him, uncomprehending.

"You're—" He couldn't breathe. "You're sure?"

"He's not lying to you," Scott said softly, moving to place a hand on Stiles's shoulder. He squeezed but Stiles couldn't really feel it, couldn't register the touch. He felt like his body had ceased to exist.

"You should go," Isaac said to Derek from the doorway. Stiles hadn't even heard him come up.

Derek nodded, once, eyes meeting Scott's for a beat before he crossed the room. Isaac passed him the car keys and then his footsteps were heavy on the stairs. The front door opened, closed. Scott's mom's car started up, and he was gone.

"I don't understand." Stiles was shaking his head over and over. "I don't—"

Scott tried to lead him to the bed, but Stiles jerked back out of his grip.

"Don't touch me." His eyes were wide, wild, and his breath was coming short and shallow. This couldn't be real. This couldn't be happening. But Scott wouldn't lie. Scott would never lie about something like this.

Which meant that Derek didn't love him.

Stiles doubled over, hand gripping the back of the desk chair so tight that the wood bit into the palm of his hand, the pain nothing compared to the raw, gaping hole inside of him.

"Stiles," Scott stepped towards him again and Stiles's eyes snapped up.

"Get out."

"Man, look, I'm sorry I—"

"_Get out!_" Stiles screamed, face contorted.

Scott backed away, hesitating with Isaac in the doorway. "We'll just be downstairs. If you need us."

Stiles waited until he heard them go down the stairs and then he straightened, crossing the room with legs that felt like rubber to close the door. Not that it mattered. Not that they couldn't hear the ragged sound of his breathing as he fought to control it. They could probably even smell the tears that blurred his vision. But he needed the illusion of privacy, if nothing else.

His legs finally gave out and he slid down the door, burying his face in his hands as his entire body shook with sobs that he fought to keep silent.

* * *

Stiles dropped into his desk at the back of the classroom with a groan, fingers groping pathetically for the extra large coffee Danny held out for him from the next desk over.

"Thanks," he said gratefully, bringing the cup to his lips and taking a long swallow, not caring that he burned his tongue in the process.

"You gotta get your shit together, man," Danny commented, as Stiles put the coffee down and fumbled in his backpack for a notebook.

"My shit is together," Stiles muttered, dropping the notebook on his desk and going back for a pen.

"Really? Cause it's the second week of college and I don't think you even know what class we're in right now."

"Sure I do." Stiles looked up at the front of the classroom where the professor was fiddling with the projector. Projector. So PowerPoint notes. PowerPoint notes plus Danny meant… okay one of his electives for sure cause Danny wasn't taking journalism, and they only had one class together and that class was—"Astronomy."

"Nope." When Stiles just looked at him blankly, Danny sighed. "It's Intro to Philosophy. Every Tuesday and Thursday at nine."

Right. Stiles knew that. He just didn't sleep well last night and he'd forgot to turn on his alarm so it was Danny's text—asking if Stiles wanted coffee—that woke him up twenty minutes ago. He'd jumped out of bed, dressed in five seconds flat, and raced out of the house. He'd made it to the classroom at 9:00 exactly and was grateful that the professor was having projector problems because he was pretty sure he'd already been in trouble for being late before.

"I'm fine," he said, flipping his notebook open to a fresh page as the professor finally got the computer and the projector working in sync.

"I didn't ask," Danny said pointedly.

Stiles pretended he didn't hear and began jotting down the points on the screen. He was fine. So what if he couldn't sleep until exhaustion hit at four or five in the morning? He had plenty of reading to do for school, so he did it then. And yeah, okay, maybe his retention wasn't great at three am but he still did the reading so that had to count.

And he'd at least made it to the right classroom this morning, so he didn't know why Danny was bitching. He didn't know why _any_ of them were bitching. Last night he'd been about to head downstairs when he'd heard Isaac Skyping with Allison. He'd been ready to tune it out and continue on his quest for a late night snack when he'd caught his name. He'd frozen, head tilted in the direction of Isaac's door and listened with all of his focus, trying to keep the sound of his breathing down to a minimum.

He knew if Isaac paid any attention he'd be able to tell Stiles was practically pressed up against his door, but he was betting that Allison's presence (even over Skype) would be enough of a distraction. And he was right, because Isaac continued without hesitation.

"He's hardly sleeping, and Danny said he was late for class again yesterday."

"That's not exactly cause for concern—college is hard enough to get used to without having been dumped the weekend before it starts," Allison replied.

"Yeah, but that's the thing…" Isaac had lowered his voice and Stiles held his breath, wondering if he'd been found out. "Other than that, he seems fine."

There was a pause, and then Stiles could practically hear Allison raise her eyebrow. "So you're worried because he's _not_ a complete wreck?"

"Yeah."

"You realize how that sounds, right?"

"I know. But you weren't there when it happened—he lost it."

"You said."

_Thanks a lot, gossip girl_, Stiles thought irritably. Was Isaac telling everyone about screaming, sobbing, brokenhearted Stiles?

"That was it, though. He came out the next day and it was normal Stiles. Like nothing had happened."

"Maybe that's a good thing?" Allison suggested. "He could just be trying to put it behind him."

"We're talking about Stiles here. He's not exactly the sort of person who lets things go."

"You might be right. I was chatting with Lydia last night and I think she said she'd talked to him the other day. Maybe he said something to her? I'll ask."

"Thanks. I don't mean to pry or anything,"

_Oh great job you're doing there, buddy._

"But you saw him and Derek together, you know what they were like—this isn't some minor high school breakup," Isaac insisted. "This is a lot worse and I think he's just shut down."

Stiles straightened at that, jaw clenching, and had walked back to his room without bothering with the snack.

So between Isaac and Allison—and apparently Lydia, and probably Scott—and now Danny, Stiles was getting pretty pissed at people monitoring his mental state.

The professor was droning on at the front of the classroom and out of the corner of his eye Stiles could see Danny shooting him what were probably meant to be discreet looks of concern. Irritation prickled over his skin. He wasn't some sort of basket case that needed to be watched 24/7 in case he broke down in the middle of class. He was handling this.

Stiles reached into his bag and pulled out an old tin made for gum. He flicked it open, dropping a small, white pill into the palm of his hand before tossing it into his mouth and swallowing it with a generous mouthful of coffee. Beside him, Danny's brow creased with worry.

"I have a headache," Stiles said flatly, and Danny looked away, guilty.

Stiles felt his own twinge of guilt but he ignored it, settling back in his chair and waiting for the effects of the pill to kick in. He knew what he was doing wasn't exactly the best idea.

He'd been standing in his bathroom the morning after Derek had… well, his brain skittered away from the thought… but he'd been staring at his pale, hollow-eyed reflection in the mirror trying to convince himself to brush his teeth and go downstairs to help Isaac and Scott unpack. But there was a horrible, lurching hurt in his chest that made breathing hard. And he couldn't stop replaying Derek's last words, over and over and over again until they became a litany.

_Idon'tloveyouIdon'tloveyouIdon'tloveyouIdon'tloveyouIdon'tloveyou._

Forcing himself to move, he'd reached up and swung the medicine cabinet open to get his toothpaste, and there, sitting innocuous and half-forgotten on the top shelf, was an orange bottle of painkillers. He'd gotten a prescription for them last year after the disaster that had been Ray, and he'd only used a couple of them. He'd packed them anyway, figuring that when you ran with werewolves some prescription-strength painkillers were bound to come in handy.

And looking at them, his heart a shredded, bleeding, open wound in his chest, Stiles had thought, hey, they couldn't hurt. He was in pain, and they might kill it. So he reached up, unscrewed the cap, and took one.

After about twenty minutes the screaming agony that he felt with every movement abated. It was there, he could still feel a dull ache running through his limbs and constricting his chest, but instead of the bright and vicious immediacy of the earlier pain it was distanced. Quieter. Even his brain had slowed down—no mean feat—and he'd been able to help Isaac set up the TV and even joke with Scott about the fridge full of nothing but leftover pizza and beer without feeling the prick of tears in his eyes.

So the next morning he took another one.

And that was how Stiles was handling it. Not the best plan, and if anyone found out he knew he'd be in trouble. But it wasn't like he was some kind of pill-popping addict. He'd stop as soon as he could take a breath without thinking about Derek. When he didn't stare unblinking at his phone waiting for a text that never came. When picking up an unfolded t-shirt didn't bring him to his knees, muffling his sobbing in the wrinkled fabric. He just needed something, for now, to keep himself numb.

The bell rang and Stiles closed his notebook. He'd filled three pages with notes, and had no idea what any of them said.

"See you on Tuesday," he said to Danny and, picking up his backpack, headed for the door.

* * *

On his way home that evening Stiles stopped at the grocery store. They'd been eating nothing but take-out for the last two weeks, and apparently Isaac was getting sick of it because he'd texted Stiles a grocery list. Stiles had responded asking why Isaac couldn't drag _his_ sorry werewolf ass to the store, but Isaac had said that he would be in class until 5 and if Stiles wanted dinner before 7 he should pick up what Isaac had asked for, or else he'd be stuck eating the leftover ginger beef in the fridge. Stiles conceded the point.

As he wandered down the cool, air-conditioned aisles of the store, Stiles turned up the volume on his ipod. He'd taken the mindless techno off of Jackson's macbook last weekend when he'd been over playing video games with Danny in their dorm room. He found that if he played it loud enough it kept his brain from forming thoughts any more complex than _feta is in the dairy section_ and _Isaac wants fresh tomatoes, not canned_. He'd spent so much time in grocery stores with Derek that initially he'd balked at the idea of going into one again. But since he couldn't survive on cold take-out alone he'd forced himself to get over it.

His movements were mechanical, though, and twice he'd found himself staring, spaced out, at a shelf in front of him with no idea of how long he'd been standing there. When that happened he just shook himself out of it, turned the volume up again, and kept going. Eventually he'd picked up everything on Isaac's list and, lugging the heavy basket, made his way to the front of the store. He avoided the cashier and went straight to the self-checkout. If he went to a cashier he'd have to take his headphones out. And make small talk. There was no way he was doing that.

Fifteen minutes later, and having only overcharged himself by $7, Stiles heaved his now considerably heavier backpack onto his back and headed towards the house. The sun was beginning to set and he wished he'd brought a pair of sunglasses, the glare making him squint. Once he'd left the supermarket he'd turned his music down so that he could hear the noise of the traffic over the thud of the bass. He didn't want to get hit by a car—or have another run in with Marcus and co.—because his music was too loud.

The neighbourhood they were in was quiet, mostly residential. It was nice. You could always count on nice in California. The weather was always pleasant, sunshine a given. Generally these were things Stiles was easily appreciative of—glad for the bare minimum of seasons, happy he rarely had to wear more than a hoodie or a light jacket even on the coolest of days. But this past week he was thinking longingly of biting cold. Of frigid wind that would chap his skin, the dead crunch of leaves under his sneakers, frozen rain, and hail.

He wanted to feel something that wasn't warm sun on his skin or a gentle breeze that smelled of salt from the ocean. He wanted the epic fury of nature flinging itself headlong into winter. Yeah, okay, he knew it was only September so even if he was somewhere other than California he wouldn't be experiencing fall for another month or two. But that didn't mean he wanted it any less.

Sullenly, Stiles scuffed his feet against the curb as he waited for the light to change so he could cross the street. He should have gone out of state for school. Chicago, maybe. Or Canada. Somewhere cold and gloomy.

From his front pocket his phone began to ring and Stiles groaned, yanking his headphones out of his ears. It was probably Isaac calling to bitch at him for taking too long at the store. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, glancing absently at the display, and then froze. A wild, leaping hope in his chest.

Derek was calling him. Oh god, Derek was calling him to say he was sorry to say it was a misunderstanding, to say he hadn't lied, to say it wasn't real, it didn't happen, to say he loved Stiles—except, no. His brain, sluggish, caught up a beat too late and he realized it wasn't Derek's name on the display, but 'Dad'.

His dad was calling him. Not Derek. Derek wouldn't be calling him because Derek didn't love him. It was his dad on the phone. And Stiles should answer. Because he hadn't spoken to his dad since it happened. He'd been purposefully calling when he knew his dad would be busy at work, leaving careful, vacantly cheerful voicemail messages and then ignoring his phone when his dad tried to return his calls. So he should really get this.

By the time Stiles came to that conclusion the call had already gone to voicemail, and the light had changed. Stuffing his phone back into his pocket he crossed the street, limbs leaden with despair.

Stupid, fucking stupid, to think that it had been Derek. Of course Derek wouldn't call him. A wave of self-loathing at his own, naively hopeful idiocy rose bitterly in his throat. Derek was done; he'd made that clear.

Ignoring the hollow ache inside of him, Stiles jogged up the front steps of their house and pushed open the unlocked door. When Isaac or Scott was home they rarely bothered to lock it because, after all, what burglar stood a chance against a werewolf or two?

"About time," Isaac called from the kitchen. "What did you do, go out and pick the olives yourself?"

"Sorry," Stiles said, tonelessly. He walked into the kitchen and slid his backpack off, resting it on the table as he began to pull out the groceries.

Isaac took one look at Stiles and the smile fell from his face. "I was just kidding."

"Okay," Stiles pulled the last bag from his backpack, avoiding Isaac's worried gaze. "I'm going to go call my dad."

"I'll let you know when it's ready," Isaac offered to Stiles's retreating back. Stiles lifted a hand in acknowledgement and made his way up the stairs.

There was a moment of silence and then Stiles heard Isaac cross the kitchen and turn on the iPod dock, Arctic Monkeys flooding the first floor of the house. Stiles rested his forehead against his door for a moment, grateful. He knew Isaac would be able to hear his conversation with his dad anyway, but he appreciated Isaac giving him the illusion of privacy.

Opening the door, he walked into his room, dumping his backpack beside his dresser and reaching into his pocket for his phone. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath, trying to steady his jittering nerves. He didn't know why he was so tense, didn't know why he'd been putting off talking to his dad for so long. But he knew his dad was probably feeling like Stiles had forgot about him, and so with one last, long exhale he hit the call button and held the phone up to his ear.

"Stiles!" He could hear how pleased his father was. "I just left you a message."

"Yeah, I know. Sorry, I missed your call."

"School keeping you busy?"

"Fairly, yeah. A lot of reading," Stiles walked across the room and sat down on his bed, leaning his back against the wall and feeling himself relax for the first time since he'd woken up this morning. He'd missed hearing his dad's voice. He hadn't realized how much until now. "How about you? How's Beacon Hills?"

They talked for half an hour. About the town, about Stiles's classes, about how the Sheriff had gone over to Melissa's house for dinner the night before and how they hadn't talked about their kids once—this made Stiles grin wide enough that his face hurt, because he and Scott had been trying to fix their parents up ever since Scott had declared that his old father was dead to him and Stiles had offered to share his. They'd talked about it before they left for college, both of them coming to the conclusion that maybe all the Sheriff and Melissa needed was some time with neither of their boys around. Looks like they'd been on to something.

"How about you, kiddo?" His father's voice broke through Stiles's smug reminiscing. "Is Derek coming up this weekend?"

All at once the warm glow of happiness that had been growing in his chest since they'd started talking broke apart and fled, Stiles's fingers going numb where they clutched tightly at the phone next to his ear. He pressed his lips together, free hand clenching in the bedspread. He knew this was coming, had known it would come since he'd first lifted the phone to his ear. But he'd let himself ignore it, let himself fall into the rhythm of him and his dad and dinner at Melissa's and now—

"Stiles? Did I lose you?"

"I'm here," Stiles could hear the odd hollowness in his voice. "I think Derek's coming up. They're having a pack meeting. But—" he pressed his lips together, unable to believe how something as small as saying Derek's name caused tears to burn hot in the corners of his eyes. "But we broke up. He broke up with me," he said, his voice catching on a sob.

There was a beat of stunned silence and then, "Oh, Stiles. I'm so sorry." He could hear his father twist open the bottle of whiskey that Stiles knew would be sitting on the counter beside him, hear the sound of his father pouring himself another glass. Stiles felt the lump in his throat grow. "Are you okay?"

_No, Dad. No. I don't think I'm ever going to be okay again. I didn't know anything could hurt this much. Why didn't you tell me I could be destroyed so easily? Why didn't you warn me that love isn't gentle or kind but a snarling, ravenous beast that will eat you alive and spit you out with pieces missing? _

"Yeah, Dad. I'm okay. I'll be okay."

"Are you sure? I could come—"

"No, I'm fine. Thanks, though." Stiles forced himself to smile, knew his dad would be able to hear it in his voice. "I've got Scott."

"Well, let me know if you change your mind."

"I will." Stiles promised. "Listen, Isaac's got dinner ready so I'd better go."

"It was good to hear from you. Call me back when you can. And Stiles—"

"I know. Thanks. Love you."

"Love you, too."

Stiles pulled the phone away from his ear, hung up, and dropped it to the bed beside him. A tear slid down his cheek, hot and wet. Then another, and another, until they spilled unchecked and he couldn't muster the energy to lift his hand up and wipe them away.

There was a soft tap on his door. Before Stiles could tell whoever it was to go away, the door opened, and Scott walked into the room. He held two open bottles of beer and, crossing the floor, he passed one wordlessly to Stiles before climbing up on the bed, sitting close enough that their shoulders touched.

Stiles felt the tears fall faster, salt mingling with the taste of the beer as he lifted the bottle to his lips. Scott said nothing, just sat a warm, solid presence beside him, and let Stiles cry.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Isaac tried not to frown as he followed Scott up the stairs to Jackson and Danny's dorm room. It felt weird heading into a pack meeting without Stiles. Ever since Scott had more-or-less accepted Derek as an equal leader of the wolves, they'd been having fairly informal meetings together twice a month, and Stiles had been at every one. Allison and Lydia had come too, until they'd left, and Jackson had come ever since he'd been back in the States. Peter was less reliable—but the last couple of months he'd been making an effort to show his face. Now, with Allison and Lydia gone, and Stiles having refused point-blank to come with them, it felt like they'd lost half their pack in one fell swoop. And the rational, level-headed half at that, Isaac thought with a sigh as Scott pushed open the door to the small set of rooms to find Jackson in the middle of a heated discussion with Derek.

"This? This is not going to be a thing," Jackson was insisting. "I did not agree to having all of you furballs over. Ever. Let alone twice a month for the next god knows how long."

"Jackson," Derek growled through a clenched jaw.

"Don't 'Jackson' me," Jackson snapped. "We talked about this before any of us left Beacon Hills—we agreed we'd have pack meetings at Scott's."

"Why is it just 'Scott's'?" Isaac wondered aloud, walking into the living area. "I live there too, you know." He dropped the bag of chips he was carrying onto the coffee table and sat down on the couch, tearing the bag open and selecting a Dorito.

"Exactly," Jackson gestured emphatically at Isaac and Scott. "Two werewolves." He flung his arms dramatically to encompass the small living area. "_One_ werewolf. Get it?"

"Calm down, Jackson," Scott rolled his eyes as he pulled two bottles of beer out of the six pack he carried, tossing one to Isaac who caught it with ease, and the other to Peter who was lounging with a bored look on his face beside the TV. Peter tipped his bottle to Scott in thanks.

"Stiles doesn't want to come and we're definitely _not_ kicking him out of his own house," Scott explained as he took a bottle for himself and shoved the other three on the kitchen counter.

"That's bullshit. Just because Stiles got his little heart broken—"

"Jackson, stop," Scott warned, coming out of the kitchen.

"No." Jackson stepped towards Scott, finger jabbing at his chest. "This is absurd. Why the hell should the rest of us have to work around him? I mean, is he even pack anymore? Because if he is, he should be here. Last time I checked, these meetings were mandatory. Or does your membership get rescinded when you stop fucking an Alpha?"

Scott's hand shot out, clawed fingers wrapping around Jackson's throat. "That's enough."

Peter looked up with interest and Isaac's fingers stilled where he was reaching for another chip. Derek looked on, quietly.

Jackson's lips curled back, fangs bared in a soundless snarl and his eyes flaring blue flame. Scott's fingers tightened and suddenly Isaac could smell blood, hot and fresh, from where Scott's claws were sliding into the soft flesh of Jackson's neck. Scott's eyes were red and scorching and Isaac felt himself shrink back into the couch ever so slightly, even though none of Scott's rage was directed at him.

Jackson tried to pull back but Scott held him fast. After a moment, Jackson's fangs melted back into teeth and his eyes returned to their normal, human blue. Scott released him and Jackson stumbled backwards, hand coming up to rub at the blood running down his neck even as the wounds began to close.

"Fine. I get it," he bit. "Mowgli's off limits." Jackson shoved past Derek and into the kitchen where he grabbed a beer from the counter. Twisting the top off he gave them a sarcastic toast. "Everyone, make yourselves at home."

Scott's eyes tracked Jackson and his hands were still tipped with claws and stained with blood.

"Are we all done bickering now?" Peter asked, and when no one answered him he rolled his eyes. "There's no point in holding these if we're going to fight every time—and in case anyone's forgotten, we've still got another werewolf pack running around our territory. Perhaps we could devote more time to that problem and less time to measuring our dicks, what do you think, Scott?"

Scott glared at Peter, but slowly his claws shrank back into his hands and the red glow left his eyes. Turning, he pushed past Jackson and into the kitchen to rinse the blood off his hands.

Jackson made a face at Scott's back, a half-assed sneer that Isaac could tell was more for show than anything, and made his way across the room to drop down on the couch beside Isaac.

"Where's Danny?" Isaac asked as Jackson helped himself to a handful of Doritos.

"I don't know, at the library or something." He chased the chips with a long swallow of beer. "Why do you care?"

"I just—" Isaac paused, toying with the label on his bottle. "I'm worried," he lowered his voice, "about Stiles."

Jackson twisted to look at him, incredulity leaving him gaping. "Are you serious right now?"

Isaac glanced over to the kitchen, where Derek and Peter had joined Scott. They were speaking quietly about the precautions that Peter and Derek had taken to get to Terrace Bay. They'd done the same thing on the initial drive up—before they went in to get Stiles, Isaac, Scott, and Derek had gone on a thorough search of the neighbourhood to ensure that none of Marcus's cronies were lurking around. While it wouldn't really be difficult for the other pack to track them out of town and to the college, they didn't intend to make it easy for them.

"Look, man, you didn't see him when we left the house," Isaac turned back to Jackson. "I'm not—I'm not saying I don't think he should be left alone," _but_, "D'you think maybe Danny would go over?"

"I repeat: are you serious right now?" Jackson's eyebrows were practically receding into his hairline and Isaac quelled the irritation that was prickling along his skin.

"Yeah. I mean, I get that you're pissed. Trust me, we all get that." Isaac sucked in a long, slow breath through his nose and tried to remember that Jackson wasn't the Kanima anymore and that if he killed Jackson he'd probably get in trouble. "But can you take a second and think about someone other than yourself? I'm not asking _you_ to go over. Can you just text Danny and ask him if he'd mind?"

"Oh, my god," Jackson rolled his eyes, but after a moment grudgingly pulled out his phone. "I'm not promising anything."

"I know, I know," but Isaac already felt better. Danny was a good guy; Danny would go over if he thought Stiles needed someone.

He didn't mean to impose on Danny (and Jackson), but when Stiles had realized that Isaac and Scott were heading to Jackson's for a pack meeting, well… Isaac didn't think he'd ever seen a look of such bleak forlornness as the one that had settled over Stiles's face. Stiles had always been at the pack meetings. Hell, Isaac was pretty sure Stiles was the one who'd always ensured that the meetings occurred at least twice a month. If he felt weird going without Stiles, he couldn't imagine how strange Stiles must have felt, staying behind.

This whole thing was a mess, and even if no one else seemed too concerned about Stiles's mental health, Isaac knew how it felt to lose your pack. He'd lost Boyd and Erica. They'd left, left him behind, and he knew what that hurt felt like. It was probably worse for Stiles. Not that Boyd and Erica hadn't been like family to him, but Stiles was probably feeling like not only had he lost Derek, but Scott as well. And Stiles and Scott were more than just best friends; they were brothers in nearly every sense of the word.

"He says he'll head over," Jackson informed Isaac unwillingly. "Now can we stop obsessing about Stiles?"

* * *

When the doorbell rang, Stiles didn't move. He just stared up at the ceiling and hoped whoever it was would take the hint and go away. The porch light was off, the house was dark, and everything about the place screamed _no one's home_. This was on purpose, because Stiles didn't want to see or hear or speak to anyone. He didn't want to do anything, and he definitely didn't want to have to interact or engage or have to feign interest. All he wanted to do was lie on the floor in the middle of the living room, in the dark, and let the thick numbness of the painkiller work through his system. He'd already had one this morning, and he'd sworn, _sworn_ he wouldn't have more than one a day. He'd lived with an addict. He knew how easy it was for one to become two, and then three, and then four, until you lost track and suddenly the bottle was empty.

So he'd promised himself he wouldn't take more than one, and that as soon as he could wake up without the sickening feeling of the floor dropping out from under him and the breathless rush of pain that accompanied the realization—the same, every morning—that Derek Hale Didn't Love Him, that he'd stop.

But then he'd wandered downstairs to see what was for dinner and Isaac and Scott had been putting their shoes on at the door. Stiles had asked, stupidly, blankly, where they were going and Scott had hesitated. Isaac was suddenly concentrating too intently on tying his shoelaces and Stiles had felt the words form, hollow, in his mouth. "Pack meeting?" They tasted static on his tongue.

Scott had jerked his chin down in a nod and Stiles had echoed it, head bobbing rhythmically for longer than was strictly necessary until Stiles had recognized the awkward movement and stilled.

Isaac stood, biting his lip. "You could come?"

Stiles's head had begun to move again, shaking as he stepped back and away from the door. Scott had asked yesterday, after Stiles had cried until his eyes were hot and red and swollen and he had nothing left but an ache in his chest so huge it felt like it might swallow the world whole. Scott had asked and Stiles had laughed, an inhuman bark that made Scott flinch and look away. That had been the last time Scott had brought it up.

So Scott and Isaac had left, without him. Moving mechanically, Stiles didn't even recognize what he was doing until he was standing in front of the medicine cabinet, standing across from his own reflection with the bruised eyes that he couldn't meet. With shame a thick coating on his tongue, he'd taken another of the small, white pills.

The doorbell rang again, and Stiles groaned, rolling over onto his stomach and resting his chin on the rough carpet as he stared at the door.

"Leave me alone," he moaned, voice muffled by the carpet and the awkward position of his neck. Whoever was outside clearly didn't hear him—so, not a werewolf, he concluded with slight surprise—because they leaned one more time on the doorbell.

"Oh my god, _fine_." Stiles pushed himself up to his feet and walked through the darkened house to the door. He supposed he could turn on a light, but he was used to the dark by now. Besides, as soon as he got whoever it was to leave, he was going to go right back to staring up at the ceiling. Unlocking the deadbolt, he swung the front door open and scowled.

"Go away."

"Hi, Stiles," Danny didn't wait for an invitation—probably because he recognized that he wouldn't be getting one—and instead shoved right past Stiles into the house. "Are all the lights in your house burnt out?"

"Why are you here? What are you doing? Stop!" Stiles protested when Danny reached over and turned on the light.

"You look worse than you did yesterday." Danny toed off his shoes and walked into the kitchen, flicking on the light and dumping two grocery bags on the counter.

"Why are you in my house? Get out of my kitchen. Go home." Stiles trailed after Danny.

"I can't go home," Danny pulled out a box of microwave popcorn, two bags of candy, a six pack of Mike's Hard Lemonade, and a stack of DVDs. "My dorm's been invaded by werewolves."

Stiles folded his arms across his chest, leaning against the counter and glaring. "Fine, don't go home. I don't care where you go. But go."

"No." Danny reached into his pocket and pulled out a keychain with a bottle opener on one end. He grabbed a hard lemonade and opened it, taking a quick sip before dropping the key ring onto the counter.

Stiles sighed, defeated. He could keep arguing with Danny—he was sure that if he insisted strongly enough Danny would actually leave—but the pill had finally kicked in and he found he didn't really care one way or the other.

Danny reached for a second cooler to hand to Stiles, but Stiles shook his head. He wasn't a total idiot—there was no way he was going to mix prescription meds (even though it was just one pill and, really, practically harmless) with alcohol. "Thanks, but I'm fine."

"Are you sure?" Danny asked, surprised.

"Yeah… I don't want to go down that whole 'self-medicating' road, you know?" Stiles said with a wan smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"So you are getting your shit together then," Danny said approvingly. "I'm glad to hear it."

Stiles felt a twinge of guilt, but it was buried low beneath a gentle haze of numbness and ignored easily enough.

"Now," Danny flipped through the DVDs. "I've got all six _Star Wars_ movies here. Do you want to start from Episode I or Episode IV?"

* * *

Three and a half weeks. It had been three and a half weeks since Stiles had started college and he couldn't believe the amount of reading and papers and assignments he had already. The worst was his Elements of Journalism class, where they had assignments due _every week_, something Stiles was personally offended by. He thought college was supposed to be different than high school. Weren't they just supposed to have midterms and a couple papers and then a final? But apparently none of his professors had received that memo, because here he was at ten o'clock on a Wednesday trying to find enough information about parking laws in Terrace Bay to write a halfway decent article about the introduction of bike lanes. Booooring.

Stiles wanted to get his Bachelors in Communication with a major of Journalism because he wanted to, like, expose political corruption or something. He knew that probably wouldn't happen right away, he'd have to work his way up the ranks of some newspaper or station until he got enough clout to be given free rein on what he wrote. He liked having a problem he could sink his teeth into, something where he could dig and research until he found enough information that it made sense and he could understand it, solve it. It was fun.

What he didn't like was being stuck in the library while Scott and Isaac were probably already home playing video games. It didn't help that the place was practically deserted, and that unless he got up every half an hour and waved his hands around the lights turned off on him.

The third time it happened, Stiles emerged from the stack of books with a snarl and stomped over to his table. Fuck this. He'd check out the book on municipal laws he'd just found and take it to the coffee shop to read. He could use some caffeine anyway.

Heading out of the building, he zipped up his hoodie, vaguely wishing he'd thought to bring a warmer jacket. The nights were getting cooler, and he realized with a sudden jolt that it was October. If he were back in Beacon Hills they'd be getting ready for the Fall Carnival. His mind skittered away from _that_ thought as soon as it surfaced, unwilling to think about the stuffed pink lion that, as far as he knew, was still sitting on the floor of his old room, taking up far too much space. It was a crappy carnival quality toy, and there was no point in keeping it. Once he got home he'd get rid of it, just stuff it in a garbage bag and leave it on the curb. The only reason he'd kept the stupid thing for so long was because it was the first thing that Derek had ever given him. Dumb. Maybe he'd give his dad a call this weekend and ask him to do it before Stiles came back for Thanksgiving, so it was gone before he'd have to look at it again.

And fuck, he'd been trying not to think about anything Derek-related and here he was, already at the café, with no memory of the walk over because he'd been too busy thinking about him. Pathetic.

Stiles pushed open the door, glad to see that, like the library, it was nearly empty. His favourite seat, a booth at the back beside a window, was free and he went over and put his backpack down before wandering up to the counter, fishing his wallet out of his back pocket.

"Hey, I'll have—"

"—a large caramel macchiato with whipped cream and extra drizzle," the barista behind the counter finished with a grin.

"Uh… yeah, thanks," Stiles looked up in surprise. "Do you remember everyone's drink?"

The guy grinned wider, brown eyes twinkling. "No."

Stiles gave a self-depreciating laugh. "I guess I come here too often then."

"No," he said as he took the bill Stiles handed over. "Or at least that's not why I remember what you like."

Stiles felt himself flush as the barista handed him back his change. Is this… was he…?

"I'm Ethan, by the way," the barista—Ethan—continued as he moved to begin making Stiles's drink.

"Stiles," he managed to reply after a flustered pause.

"I know," Ethan winked, disarming.

"Right." Stiles swallowed, cheeks hot, not entirely sure what to do. No one had ever flirted with him like this before. Assuming he was right and that was what the barista was doing. Flirting. With Stiles. Normal flirting—with winks and smiles and remembered names. Not Alpha-werewolf flirting, which involved being pinned against walls and threatened. This, this was decidedly un-threatening.

"Thank you," he said when he took the coffee from Ethan.

"You're welcome." Ethan smiled again and Stiles nearly tripped over a chair as he made his way back to his table, blushing to the tips of his ears as he heard Ethan smother a laugh behind him.

* * *

He went back the next day, between classes so he didn't have to stay long. Ethan greeted him with a wave and a grin and put his order in before Stiles could even ask. Stiles had smiled back, slow and uncertain, and this time it had been Ethan who'd ducked his head, blushing.

Stiles wasn't sure what it meant. What he wanted it to mean. If he wanted it to mean anything. He still woke up every morning with the thudding, hollow understanding that Derek Hale Didn't Love Him. He still couldn't manage to get up, shower, get dressed and out the door without taking one of the small, white pills. There was no being 'over' Derek. No reality where he didn't feel the confused ache of that loss a thousand times throughout the day.

The pills helped, dulled the edges blunt in the morning and by the time he got home from school, well, whatever alcohol in the house helped smooth them over again until he could go to sleep, secure in the knowledge that there'd be another little white pill in the palm of his hand moments after his alarm would go off. Not the best coping mechanism, he knew. Not a great cycle. He'd caught Isaac eyeing his alcohol intake and after that had taken pains to drink no more than Scott so that Isaac couldn't say anything. And if he kept a bottle of tequila in his room, well, that was between him and his conscience.

Which was remarkably clear. A first, almost. Since Scott had been turned, anyway.

He hadn't been asking about pack business. He hadn't been able to stomach the thought of hearing Derek's name come out of Isaac or Scott's or Jackson's mouth and having to feel the wrenching hurt of _not yours_ echo through his head. He assumed someone would tell him if anything serious had happened, if there was anything he actually needed to know. But Scott avoided any mention of Derek or Peter or pack. Isaac had tried to bring up Marcus once, to tell Stiles what they'd found so far (nothing useful), but Stiles had stood up and walked out of the room.

So he didn't know what they were doing to protect themselves. He didn't know what precautions Scott was taking, or whether Derek was still staying at the loft, or what kind of hoodoo Peter had cooked up, or if Deaton had been involved.

He'd been having a surprisingly un-supernatural semester so far, and he planned to keep it that way.

Oh, a part of him was horrified. He knew he ought to be doing everything he could to help the pack—_his_ pack—and Stiles felt bad about that. He wasn't a sidelines sort of guy, didn't sit around waiting for things to happen. Except now he was, and he did.

He just… couldn't get involved. He couldn't know or learn or research anything that might require him to be in the same room as Derek. He was afraid of what he'd do if that happened. Afraid of having to look Derek in the eye. Afraid of not being able to stop himself from reaching out and touching what had been, for so long, unquestionably _his_. Afraid of what it might do to him if he reached out and Derek stepped back. Because that would break him. That would destroy the last vestige of hope that Stiles was clinging to that this whole thing was a mistake, a ruse, a ploy to keep him safe. But if Derek was _there_, if Derek was in front of Stiles and he looked at him with those quiet, sympathetic eyes that held only pity and no love, well… Stiles didn't want to think about that.

So, he focused on his schoolwork, completed all his assignments on time, and did all of the readings. He hadn't missed a class or a tutorial since his first week, and he was even making an effort to show up on time. He kept his room tidy, helped Isaac with the dishes, gave Scott a hand with his homework. He hung out with Danny, bitched at Jackson, Skyped with Lydia, called his dad a couple times a week, and emailed Melissa. It didn't escape his notice that sometimes conversations stopped when he walked into a room, but he didn't press. He caught the occasional hushed phone call, the hurried text, and ignored them.

If it were important, they'd tell him. And since they hadn't him told, it wasn't important, and he could go on pretending that he was a normal eighteen year old boy who didn't have anything on his mind other than passing his midterms and a possible flirtation with a cute barista.

If he pretended hard enough, for long enough, he thought maybe the feeling of being disjointed, shipwrecked, would go away. He'd stop reaching in the night for someone who wasn't there, stop getting halfway through sending a text before realizing that Derek wouldn't care that Stiles thought his Astronomy professor might be a vampire. Maybe he'd even stop missing someone who clearly wouldn't be missing him.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

A Saturday in November, Stiles stumbled downstairs, pulling a t-shirt on over his pajama bottoms and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. The kitchen was deserted, with a note scrawled in Scott's writing across the whiteboard Isaac had stuck on the wall, _gone for a run_. Once a week or so Scott and Isaac picked up Jackson and the three of them drove to the edge of town. They couldn't run like they wanted to at the track at the college, or around the block like Stiles could. Initially Stiles had been kind of bummed at being left behind, but now he just enjoyed having the house to himself for a couple hours.

Humming under his breath, he opened the fridge and pulled out a jug of orange juice and a carton of eggs. Grabbing a glass from the cupboard he filled it with juice, tipping it back and finishing it in one long swallow. There was nothing as refreshing as a cold glass of O.J. first thing in the morning. Still humming, he refilled the glass before sticking the juice back in the fridge and turning to pull out a frying pan. Stiles Stilinski had a mind for eggs, sunny side up.

Wondering if they still had bacon, Stiles opened the door and stuck his head back in the fridge. After a second he made a low, pleased noise in his throat and pulled out half a pack. He'd fry the bacon up first and then fry the eggs up in the bacon grease. What a beautiful way to start a Saturday.

Pushing the frying pan onto the stove, Stiles reached up to grab a plate for the bacon and then had the sudden, dizzying sensation that he wasn't alone in the kitchen. Freezing mid-reach, he sucked in a breath, his fingers closing over the rim of a plate as he slowly lowered himself back to his feet. He laid the plate carefully on the countertop, set the bacon on top of it, and reached for the drawer on his right. Sliding it open, he selected a steak knife and gripped the handle tight in the palm of his hand.

"If Marcus sent you, you can fuck right off," Stiles commented as he turned around, knife steady in his hand.

But it wasn't a strange werewolf standing in the doorway of the kitchen. It was a werewolf he knew all too well. Stiles's heart gave a stuttering, painful leap.

"Derek?"

"Stiles."

Stiles was finding it difficult to hear past the ringing in his ears. He hadn't seen Derek since Derek had told him he didn't love him. Stiles had gone out of his way not to see Derek. He'd avoided pack meetings and even going back home to Beacon Hills on weekends. And, despite all that, here Derek was. Standing in Stiles's kitchen.

"Scott and Isaac aren't here," Stiles managed, finally. He couldn't tear his eyes away from Derek's face, drinking in the details of it like a drowning man. He knew it would kill him but his body was insisting it was air.

"I know." Derek stepped forward and Stiles tried to move back but bumped into the edge of the counter.

Derek's eyes were an impossible green in the midmorning sunlight that streamed through the windows. He'd let his stubble grow out some, until it was no longer just a suggestion of a beard but thick and black so that his framed lips looked even softer in comparison. Stiles's fingers clenched around the handle of the steak knife to stop himself from reaching out.

"Then why are you here?"

"I wanted to see you."

"You—" Stiles broke off, shaking his head. He finally realized that he was still holding the knife and put it down on the counter with a clatter. "Why?"

"I just…" Derek looked away, body posture suddenly uncertain. "I wanted to see how you were doing," he finished softly, moving across the kitchen until he was standing in front of Stiles. "How are you doing?"

Derek was close enough that Stiles could smell the warm leather of his jacket, the spice of the body wash he used. Stiles's heart was a hot, unmovable lump in his throat and before he knew what he was doing he closed the distance between them, sliding a hand past Derek's open jacket and flattening his palm against Derek's chest. He could feel the heat of Derek's skin through the fabric of the grey v-neck, feel the solid muscle rise and fall with Derek's breath.

Stiles's eyes moved up from where they'd been fixed on his hand, lying firm against Derek, to linger on Derek's lips that parted under the scrutiny. Stiles licked his own lips, felt Derek's sudden, indrawn breath, and then Derek's mouth was hot and wet and open against his, their tongues sliding together and Derek's hands fisted in Stiles's t-shirt.

Stiles didn't know which of them had moved first. He didn't care. He wanted nothing more than the feel of Derek's skin naked against his. He was pressed against the counter, the edge digging hard into his back. As Derek sunk his teeth into Stiles's bottom lip, Stiles dragged Derek closer, arching shamelessly into him.

"Bedroom," Stiles gasped, as Derek broke their kiss to fix his mouth over the pulse in Stiles's neck.

"Right." Derek bit down and Stiles nearly slid to the floor, the feeling of Derek's teeth leaving bruises as his tongue swirled over Stiles's skin, making Stiles lightheaded.

"_Now_." Stiles pushed Derek back, yanking his shirt over his head as he stumbled out of the kitchen. He could hear Derek growl low in his throat, the sound sending a thrill up Stiles's spine as Derek wrestled out of his jacket and followed Stiles up the stairs.

They barely made it into Stiles's room before Derek was on him again. Stiles shuddered as Derek wrapped a hand around his throat and dragged him back until he was held flush against Derek. Derek had managed to lose his shirt, as well as his jacket, and Stiles's skin burned where it pressed against the naked panes of Derek's chest. Stiles opened his mouth—to say what, he wasn't sure—but Derek's hand on his throat tightened and all that escaped Stiles was an embarrassingly needy whimper. He could feel Derek smirk against his skin as the werewolf pulled Stiles's head back further and sucked a kiss onto the exposed line of his neck.

The hand that wasn't tight on his throat spanned across Stiles's chest, fingers reaching to brush lightly over one of Stiles's nipples, tweaking it gently until it hardened under the touch and then twisting suddenly so that pain shot straight to Stiles's cock and he couldn't help the useless jerk of his hips into empty air. Stiles's hands came up to grip Derek's arm—not to pull him away, but just to have something to hold on to when Derek twisted his fingers again and the sharp pleasure-pain made Stiles's eyes roll back into his head and his knees weaken.

Derek closed his teeth around the delicate lobe of Stiles's ear as his hand slid down Stiles's chest to palm Stiles's cock through the thin material of his pajama bottoms. Stiles fought not to move, not to push into the delicious friction, as Derek's fingers began to stroke, because he knew the hand hard on his throat meant that Derek wanted him to be still. He could feel Derek's own erection pressed against him through the fabric of his jeans and when Derek's hips gave a slow roll, grinding himself into Stiles's ass, Stiles had to bite into his lip to stop himself moving.

"Do you want this?" Derek breathed against Stiles's ear, breath hot and moist and causing Stiles to shiver despite himself.

"Yes," Stiles begged. God, he wanted this. Wanted Derek back, like this. He knew Derek had been lying, knew there was no way Derek could just—but coherent thought made an abrupt departure when Derek's hand slid Stiles's pajama pants down so they fell in a pool at Stiles's feet and then Derek's fingers wrapped firmly around Stiles's cock.

Stiles's head fell back against Derek's shoulder, breath hitching before sliding out in a rush as Derek's hand began to move. Stiles couldn't help the thrust of his hips forward and then back so his ass rubbed against Derek's cock. Derek gave a sharp hiss of indrawn breath and then his hands were gone, as was the press of his body against Stiles's.

Stiles swayed, unmoored by the sudden loss of contact. It took a moment for him to re-orient himself, to catch his balance, and a protest was forming on the tip of his tongue when he turned around and realized Derek had stepped back to pull off his jeans and was now just as naked as Stiles.

His protest died, mouth gone dry even as he felt the wetness of precome bead on the head of his dick. Derek's own cock lay flush against his body, thick and heavy and Stiles knew how it would feel in his hands, in his mouth. How the velvet softness of it would be such a thrilling contrast to the coarse hair that trailed down from Derek's stomach. His fingers flexed at his sides and he stepped out of his tangled pants, reaching for Derek before he was even conscious of his movement.

Derek stopped him before he could touch, pressing a firm hand against Stiles's chest and pushing him back, nodding towards the bed with eyes that had gone dark, green irises swallowed up by black.

"Yeah, yeah, okay," Stiles swallowed, turning back and making his way to his bed on knees that felt like they might give out at any second. He could hardly believe this was happening, that Derek had come back. He sunk down onto the mattress, fisting his hands in the sheets so Derek wouldn't see the tremble in his fingers.

"What do you want, Stiles?" Derek asked with his voice rough and edged with a growl that might not be entirely human. "Tell me what you want." He pressed Stiles back against the bed, large body crowding up against Stiles and mouth hot as he leaned down and fixed it over the jut of Stiles's collarbone.

It took Stiles a second to find his voice, to focus past the feel of Derek's tongue and the rasp of his beard against his skin. "I want to fuck you," _I want to have you_. He arched up, rubbing himself against Derek's hip and feeling Derek's cock press urgently against him.

Teeth closed around his flesh and Stiles made a strangled noise, rising off the bed and pushing Derek back, knowing he wouldn't last if Derek kept that up. Derek let himself be moved, let Stiles twist them so now it was Derek with his back against the mattress and Stiles rising above him, settling down over Derek's thighs with a knee on either side. Stiles reached past Derek, fingers clumsy as he dragged open the bottom drawer of his bedside table and pulling out a bottle of lube and a condom.

Derek's eyes shuttered for a second, icy blankness settling like snow, but they closed when Stiles's fingers stroked over him, long and familiar. Stiles ripped open the condom package, slid the condom down over Derek's cock before grabbing the bottle and popping it open, slicking his own fingers till they glistened in the morning sunlight. Stiles rose up, moving over Derek and pressing a finger into himself. He bit back a low groan at the burn, hips jerking forward and another bead of precome sliding wetly down his cock as he pushed a second finger past the ring of muscle and into the heat of his own body.

Under him, Derek's eyes had opened and his lips were pulled back from his teeth in something that was almost a snarl. The sight of Stiles on top of him, two fingers buried in his ass and his cheeks flushed red, mouth open and slack as he fucked himself, was too much. He grabbed Stiles's hips, fingers digging in hard. "Now," Derek growled.

Stiles wasn't quite ready, could have used another finger, more lube on Derek's cock, but he wanted to _feel_ this. He pulled his fingers out, braced his hands on Derek's chest and lowered himself down onto Derek. The sensation of Derek's blunt cockhead shoving past the resistance of Stiles's body had Stiles gasping, nails digging into Derek hard enough that he could feel them break skin.

Derek's hands flexed on Stiles's hips, but he let Stiles control the pace, let Stiles continue to push himself down onto Derek's dick until he'd taken Derek into himself as far as he could. Then, Stiles began to move.

He set a brutal pace, hips rising and slamming down, fucking himself onto Derek's cock with an urgency that bordered on desperation. His breath came out in short, jerky pants and his skin was slick with sweat; Derek's fingers needing to dig in even harder to find purchase which only spurred Stiles on until he was crying out, frustrated and frantic. The sound of flesh slapping against flesh filled the room, drowned out the sound of Stiles's heartbeat thundering in his own ears.

He was close, so close but he needed something more. The initial pain of taking Derek's cock before he'd been ready had abated. His body had adjusted to the intrusion and the lube from his fingers ensured the glide was smooth. But Stiles didn't want smooth. He didn't want this to be easy. He wanted it to hurt, to leave marks. He wanted to feel this moment in every movement of his body for days to come. He wanted to know this was real.

"Come on, Derek," he growled, lifting his hands from Derek's chest to where Derek's hands held his hips, pressing them more firmly into him. Derek's eyes flicked up to Stiles's and whatever he saw there had his jaw tightening, fingers clenching and the sudden bite of claws piercing Stiles's skin as Derek took over control.

Stiles's mouth fell open and slack as Derek used his grip to fuck Stiles onto him. He didn't bother to thrust up and meet Stiles, just drove him down over and over again until Stiles cried out, entire body clenching around Derek as he came, spilling hot and wet over the both of them. Derek kept fucking him through it, shoving Stiles down onto his cock until Stiles swayed bonelessly, having to hold himself up with a hand on Derek's chest. Derek shuddered and then he was coming, buried deep and pulsing in Stiles's ass.

Stiles took a minute to catch his breath, body still shuddering slightly with the aftershocks, before dropping down to sprawl across Derek, heedless of the fact that they were both sticky with sweat and Stiles's come.

Oh, he'd missed that. And he'd missed this, too. His cheek was pressed close to Derek's chest and he could hear Derek's heartbeat start to slow and even out. Stiles didn't want to move, would have been happy to stay there forever, but Derek got cranky if he couldn't clean up right away—god, he was such a neat freak. Not that Stiles particularly liked come dried against his skin, but he would have been willing to make the sacrifice if it meant more time draped naked over Derek.

He pushed himself up slightly, turning to press a soft kiss to Derek's collarbone, but Derek tensed suddenly beneath him. He was probably getting ready to bitch about the come already. With a little huff Stiles peeled himself completely off the werewolf and rolled off the bed. "Hang on, I'll get a washcloth."

Stiles's legs still felt more like rubber than bone, but he didn't collapse on his way to the bathroom, so he was taking that as a plus. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror—grinning and flushed—and bit his lip as a warm curl of happiness wrapped itself around his heart. He grabbed a cloth and turned on the tap, waiting for the water to heat up.

"I guess it'll be my turn to empty out a drawer for you," he said, running the cloth under the water. Derek did have a point, Stiles's skin was starting to feel itchy and he'd be glad to wash it off. "Do you want to be on the top, or bottom?" He asked cheekily as he walked out of the bathroom, cupping a hand under the one carrying the cloth so he didn't drip all over the carpet.

He stopped abruptly though because Derek wasn't lying naked in his bed anymore. Derek was standing near the door and fastening the buttons on his jeans. "Derek, what…?"

"I'm sorry," Derek was shaking his head. "This was a mistake."

"A mistake?" Stiles blinked, uncomprehending. "What do you mean? Where are you going?" His voice rose alarmingly as Derek opened the door and stepped out into the hallway. Stiles was clenching the cloth tightly in his fist, water running down his hand to drip steadily onto the carpet. "Derek!"

Derek paused, reaching down and picking up the shirt he had discarded earlier. "I'm not… I'm not staying, Stiles. We're not back together. This was a—a lapse in judgment. And I'm sorry. It's my fault. I should never have come over when I knew Scott and Isaac wouldn't be here."

"What are you saying?" Stiles could hear how thick and choked his voice sounded, could feel the hot string of tears. "This was just a fuck to you? It didn't mean anything?"

"Yes."

Disbelief was a cold, hard wall thrown up in front of his heart. "No."

"Stiles—"

"_No_," the violence in his denial came as a shock even to Stiles. "You know that's not what this was."

"I'm sorry." Derek turned and jogged down the stairs, and a second later the front door closed behind him.

Stiles stood in the middle of his room, naked and shocky with a creeping sensation of déjà vu. This was happening again. How was this happening again? His hand holding the washcloth moved absently, wiping down his front and erasing all evidence of what had just occurred between him and Derek. Gone, dissolved with a swipe or two of a wet towel.

Not all gone, though, he realized dully as he bent down to retrieve his pajama bottoms. There were ten throbbing bruises forming on his hips and, in the centre of each, the smallest pinprick of blood.

So he hadn't imagined it. Hadn't dreamed Derek back into his bed, his body. It had happened. But it hadn't changed anything. Derek still left. Derek still didn't love him.

Stiles's stomach twisted, a sudden swooping sensation of falling and he turned, stumbling blindly back into the bathroom, knocking his shoulder against the doorjamb before he dropped to his knees in front of the toilet. He just managed to lift up the lid and the seat before he vomited, retching violently with his fingers clinging to the cold porcelain as though it could ground him.

He was shaking, his whole body covered in a thin sheen of sweat that immediately began to cool as the heaving stopped and he slumped down to the bathmat. His mouth tasted sour, eyes stinging with either sweat or tears—he didn't know, didn't care. Stiles lifted an unsteady hand to wipe his mouth, flushing the toilet before closing his eyes and resting his head back against the side of the bathtub.

There was a dead weight in his chest that felt like it might pull him down through the floor. Drag him under until the slightest movement felt like pushing against two tones of dirt. He needed to get up, needed to stand because if he didn't do something to combat it, didn't block it off, wall it up, hide it away, he might never be able to function again. And that was a revolting thought. It was a sad, pathetic, broken kind of thought and Stiles wasn't a sad, pathetic, broken kind of person. He was better than that. He was more than that, right?

Using the side of the tub he pushed himself to his feet. Once again, his own face stared at him from the medicine cabinet mirror. This time, though the pleased flush had vanished, the grin was nowhere to be seen. His skin was pale, almost gaunt, and the eyes that had only minutes ago—minutes, how could it have been only minutes when it felt like his entire world had once again spun off course?—been lit up with happiness were now dull and hollow. Stiles looked away as he swung the cabinet door open, unable to bear the sight of himself. He reached for the orange bottle on the top shelf, a part of him already loosening, easing with the knowledge that in a moment or two he wouldn't be feeling much of anything at all.

Twisting off the cap he dumped two pills into his hand. And then, after a moment's thought, dumped out two more. He didn't want to take any chances. Didn't want to take the risk that the raging howls of pain and bewilderment and hurt might push past the thin surface of his control. He wanted to feel nothing.

"Stiles, what are you doing?"

Stiles jerked his head around, hand clenching around the pills he held as he surreptitiously placed the bottle back onto the shelf. "Hey, Scott."

"No," Scott took a step into the bathroom, his gaze moving to where the orange bottle sat inside the cabinet. "Don't 'hey Scott' me. What the fuck happened? Why does it smell like—"

"Like Derek was here? Like we fucked?" Stiles felt his lips curl up in a way that felt unfamiliar, cruel. "Because he was. And we did. Now fuck off."

"No. What are you doing? What are you taking?" Scott reached past Stiles and grabbed the bottle off the shelf. "Painkillers? What the fuck?" He looked at Stiles with disbelief. "Stop."

"You're not my Alpha, or whatever. You don't get to tell me what I can and can't do." Stiles lifted his hand, bringing the pills up to his mouth but Scott moved quicker than Stiles could see, his hand a blur of motion until his fingers closed around Stiles's wrist, halting its progress.

"Let me go," Stiles's voice was hard and unforgiving as he tried to pull his arm back. "Let me go, now."

"No." Scott repeated, again. His eyes met Stiles's and they were furious. "Drop them."

"I'm not going to—" But Scott's hand tightened, iron grip squeezing until Stiles could feel the bones in his wrist grind together and, with a muffled cry, he was forced to open his hand, the pills falling to the floor. Scott released him and Stiles made to bend down and retrieve them but Scott pushed him back, scooping up the pills and tossing them into the toilet.

"Hey!" Stiles protested, lunging forward as Scott reached for the bottle. "Scott, don't—"

Scott turned to him, disgust written in every line in his body. "Don't? Don't, what? Don't let you take pills because you can't deal with your shit? Don't let you destroy yourself because of _Derek?_ No. Fuck you, Stiles, if you think I'm going to let you self-medicate with prescription pills. I thought you were better than this." Scott twisted off the cap and emptied the bottle into the toilet and before Stiles could react he'd flushed it, the pills disappearing with the rush of water. "I don't care how hurt you are, I don't care how sad and alone and sorry for yourself you're feeling. If I catch you taking this kind of shit again, I'm going to call your dad."

"Scott—"

"I'm going to call your dad and then I'm going to call my mom. And if you think they're going to do anything other than send you to rehab until you can get over Derek _fucking_ Hale without some kind of crutch, you're wrong."

"You wouldn't—"

"Don't push me, Stiles." Scott's voice was low, dangerous, and there was an undercurrent of barely contained violence. "If I'm not your Alpha, _fine_. But I am your brother and that means I don't give a shit if you hate me, as long as you're alive."

"Seriously?" Stiles folded his arms over his chest, rolling his eyes. "I think you're blowing things a bit out of proportion."

"Really? Because from where I'm standing you're dangerously close to becoming a drug addict."

"Oh, come on. I'm not. I'm not addicted."

"Good, then this should be the last conversation we have about this." Scott turned and walked out of the bathroom.

Stiles gave an inarticulate snarl of fury and slammed the cabinet door closed. The mirror cracked under the force, but didn't shatter.

Somehow, it all felt terribly anticlimactic.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

A week later, Stiles grabbed his large caramel macchiato with whipped cream and extra drizzle to go. It wasn't until he was sitting in his philosophy class beside Danny, trying not to fall asleep while the professor droned on, that he noticed that where it usually said 'Stiles' on the cup, this time it said 'Ethan'. And under that was a phone number. Ethan's phone number.

Noticing Stiles staring, slightly dumbstruck, at his coffee, Danny leaned over. He grinned when he saw the number, elbowing Stiles teasingly. "Ethan, huh?"

"What?" Stiles looked over, blinking.

"Ethan from the coffee shop? He's cute," Danny smirked. "I guess he thinks you're cute too."

"I… uh, yeah." Stiles could feel his cheeks heat up a little.

"You should call him."

"I'm not going to call him!" Stiles hissed, glancing up to make sure the professor was too focused on his PowerPoint slides to notice them talking.

"Why not?"

"We're in class, Danny." Duh.

"So text him."

"I can't text him."

"Why not?"

"Because—" Because Stiles lived with two werewolves. Because Stiles had never just been given someone's number, so he didn't know what to do with one. Because he didn't know how normal people dated. Because he had a broken heart that he didn't think would ever not be broken. Because Derek.

"Oh, come on. It's been, like, months."

Because his friend Danny had apparently joined the ranks of the supernatural as a mind reader.

"Besides, if you don't text him he might spit in your coffee next time you go in."

"He's not going to spit in my coffee!" Ew. Ethan wouldn't do that. Would he?

"You never know," Danny shrugged, raising an eyebrow. "It'd be rude not to at least text him and let him know you got his number."

"It's not a good idea, okay?" Stiles shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "I mean, what would I even say? 'Hi. Got your number. Sorry I can't date you because I'm a mess after being dumped? Oh, and by the way, werewolves'."

"Stiles," Danny rolled his eyes, "You don't have to date the guy."

"You're saying I should just sleep with him? I don't think that's going to help anything. Thanks though, really." Stiles tried to keep the sarcasm to a minimum but didn't quite manage. Like fucking someone else would magically make him feel all better.

"Nothing else has helped, has it? Maybe you just need to remember that Derek—"

Stiles flinched at his name but Danny ignored him.

"—isn't the only person you're ever going to be with. That you can be happy with other people—even if it is only for an hour or two."

"Danny Mahealani, life coach," Stiles muttered under his breath. Danny just shrugged and turned back to his notes.

Stiles waited until it looked like Danny was too focused on his—surprisingly well done—doodle of a classic wolfman to notice and then he surreptitiously wrote down Ethan's number on the corner of his notes. He wasn't going to do anything with it. But he didn't want to throw away the number with the cup.

Just in case.

He took another sip of coffee and tried to focus on what the professor was saying, but as had been the norm this last week he couldn't seem to keep his mind still enough to pay attention. There was too much going on and, without the aid of his painkillers, Stiles couldn't block it out.

His fight with Scott was still ugly and fresh. The two of them were barely able to grunt 'hello' in the morning with out one or both of them flaring up over an imagined slight. Stiles wasn't sure he could forgive Scott for flushing the pills. Sure, he knew taking them wasn't really a great strategy and that it could have become a problem. But it hadn't. Scott just hadn't trusted him enough to let Stiles deal with it on his own. He'd overreacted, completely blown up, and had assumed _he_ knew what was best for Stiles.

Which was bullshit.

And now Stiles couldn't mask the hurt of Derek leaving. Especially now that it was not once but twice Derek had left him. And both times in that bedroom, with the dark grey walls that Stiles was beginning to hate. He'd been stupid to hold out the hope that Derek hadn't meant it the first time, because it was obvious after last week that he had. If Stiles had ever meant anything to Derek there was no way Derek could have done that to him. No way he could have hurt him again like that. You didn't hurt the people you loved. You just didn't.

Which meant Stiles felt just as raw and ragged and exposed as he had after their initial breakup, and now, thanks to Scott, he was being forced to feel it without pharmaceutical interference.

Thankfully Stiles didn't think Scott had said anything about the pills to anyone else. Although he might have told Isaac, who continued to watch Stiles with cautious eyes. It was as if, out of the three of them, it was the human and not the werewolves who might do something dangerous. If it didn't make Stiles's skin itch with annoyance he would have found it funny. Not that Scott would have had to tell Isaac, Stiles supposed. Scott had been yelling loud enough for another human in the house to have heard, let alone a werewolf.

Danny hadn't said anything though, and Stiles was pretty sure if Jackson knew—about Derek's visit _or_ the pills—he wouldn't let Stiles live any of it down. So at least Scott had kept what had happened to himself, for the most part. Only one betrayal instead of two, then. How nice.

The sudden shuffle of bags and notebooks brought Stiles's attention back to the classroom and out of his own head. Gathering his things, he drank the rest of the coffee—now unpleasantly lukewarm—before tossing the cup in the bin on the way out of the classroom. Behind him Danny gave a long, dramatic sigh, and Stiles flipped him the bird as he made his way to his next class.

* * *

That night, as he had every night for the last week, Stiles sat slumped in his desk chair staring at the bed. The first thing he'd done that Saturday after he'd emerged from his room was to take the sheets he'd stripped from the bed and stuff them in the washer. He'd run them through twice, determined to get any last trace of Derek out of them.

But later that evening when he'd forced himself to put them back on the bed, made himself crawl under the sheets, he could have sworn Derek's scent was still caught in the fabric. So the next night he'd washed them again. And again and again and again and now it was the fifth night in a row that he'd stripped and washed and remade his bed and still been unable to sleep in it. He'd lie there, staring up at the white ceiling, or on his side at the grey wall, or on his other side at the room—desk, chair, bookcase, bathroom—and wait for the sound of his alarm.

Not for the first time Stiles wondered what would happen if he crawled into Scott's bed. If Scott would recognize that all Stiles needed was comfort and arms wrapped around him and if he'd let Stiles stay there until he fell asleep. But he couldn't bring himself to do it. To walk down the hall and knock on Scott's door and ask to spend the night in his bed. Because Scott had flushed his pills and Scott wasn't talking to him and Stiles was mad at Scott and he didn't want to admit that he couldn't sleep in his own fucking bed because all he could think about was Derek.

So he sat in the uncomfortable wooden chair, staring at the bed and wondering what it would take to reclaim it. What it would take to make the bed, the room, feel like they were his again.

Though he fought not to do it, fought to ignore the pull, resist the urge, Stiles's gaze was drawn irresistibly away from the bed and to the small drawer on the right hand side of the desk. He'd shoved the silver charm in it, hidden it under a mess of paper and sharpies and half-filled notebooks. He'd wanted to throw it out, had actually tossed it into the kitchen trash and carried it out to the back lane, only to have gone back two hours later frantic and near tears digging through the garbage until he'd found it again.

Stiles closed his eyes and dropped his head into his hands, weariness aching in his bones. He was so tired. He kept hoping if he were exhausted enough, if his body needed it enough, he'd sleep. And he did. In fits and starts. On the bus, midway through class, watching a movie with Isaac. But never here. Never when he needed it the most.

Bringing his head up, he stared again at the bed with eyes that were bruised and hollow. He couldn't keep going on like this. He had to do something. Had to stop thinking about how things could be better or different or what he could do and just fucking _do_ something. Running a hand through his hair he got up, crossed the room, and began to pull books off the bookshelf Derek had built.

* * *

Two hours later and Stiles stood panting in the middle of his room. The bookcase was gone, dragged out into the hallway and then (with help from Isaac who'd tentatively asked if Stiles needed a hand with it) carried down the stairs and out the back alley where it leaned drunkenly beside the garbage bins, its shelves stacked unceremoniously inside of it. Stiles had thanked Isaac and then gone back upstairs and shut the door. He'd then proceeded to drag his bed from under the window to against the wall where the bookshelf had stood, pushed his desk across the room and under the window, and moved his dresser to the wall beside the door where his desk had stood. Without a bookcase his books were lined up along the baseboards on either side of his desk, and when he sank down to the mattress he felt a little spark of pleasure at how he'd now be looking at his desk and the window and his books when he sat on his bed. Eventually he'd have to get some more bookshelves, and maybe when he was down in Beacon Hills for thanksgiving that weekend he'd go with his dad for some. He wouldn't get one tall one again, though. Maybe two short ones that could stand on either side of his desk so it'd still be flanked with books and he'd still be able to see them from his bed.

Stiles fell back against the bed and grinned up at the ceiling. He felt good. Exhausted, and sure to be sore tomorrow from dragging the furniture around his bedroom, but good. Like he'd done something. Accomplished something. Done a thing for himself that yeah, okay, had initially been about Derek. It had been about Derek's presence in his room, but once the bookcase was out it was like a weight had been lifted. The most obvious reminder of Derek was gone and so instead of thinking about what he would see and how it would make him think of Derek, Stiles found himself thinking about what he'd like to see from his bed, from his desk.

There was a knock on his door and Stiles pushed himself up. "I'm okay, Isaac. I don't need any more help."

"Not Isaac." Scott pushed open the door, standing there awkwardly. He held out an opened bottle of beer for Stiles. "Peace offering?"

Stiles hesitated a second for nodding. "I could get used to this, you know, you bringing me booze."

Scott rolled his eyes and crossed the room, passing Stiles the beer and bringing his own up to his lips as he sat cross-legged on the floor with his back against the relocated dresser. "It just sounded like you could use a beer after all your hard work." He looked around. "I like what you've done with the place."

"Thanks." Stiles raised his bottle in a mini salute.

"I'm sorry about—"

"Don't." Stiles cut Scott off, not able to meet his gaze. "It's fine. You weren't… well, I'm not saying I'm okay with what you did, but I get why you did it. So."

Scott relaxed a little, leaning back more comfortably. "Okay."

"Okay."

They drank for a minute or two in silence and Stiles tried not to think about how much he'd missed this. He hated fighting with Scott. They didn't do it frequently, but when they did… it always felt like a part of him was missing. Not like how it did with Derek, how it felt like Derek had taken a chunk of Stiles and walked away with it, leaving behind a ragged-edged void. But, when Scott wasn't there, it was like Stiles didn't have legs and kept forgetting about it. Like he'd get up and fall over and lie there for a second, utterly bewildered, because of course he had legs. He had always had legs, so how could he suddenly not?

He was glad to have his legs back.

"Alright," Stiles let out a long breath, "I guess you'd better tell me what's going on with the pack. With Marcus." It'd been too long with him not knowing.

"Yeah," Scott lifted his bottle to his lips to try and hide the grin that was spreading over his face, "I guess I'd better."

* * *

After Scott had left, taking their empty bottles with him, Stiles had walked over to his desk and pulled out a battered notebook from the bottom drawer. Flipping it open, he sat down at the desk, grabbed a pen, and began to jot down notes on a page with the name _MARCUS_ scrawled across the top.

He'd started keeping a, well, a journal he guessed he could call it, of all the supernatural crap they'd encountered after they had used Gerard's bestiary to find out what the hell the lizard thing (aka Kanima) was. The bestiary was great and all—but it _was_ in archaic Latin and even though Lydia now had her own copy on a USB and was translating it in her free time, it was still a bitch to try and pull information out of. Stiles hoped this would be easier and more useful since, let's face it, it wasn't like he'd be leaving said supernatural crap behind anytime soon. Not with his entire social circle all wrapped up in it.

This way, if they ever ran into a Kanima or a hyper-aggressive werewolf again, Stiles could flip back and see what they'd done about it the last time. And maybe that way they'd have an easier go of it the second time around.

Not that he hoped they would need to consult it ever—if he had his way there wouldn't be any more supernatural crap ever again—but it would be stupid not to be prepared. And Stiles wasn't stupid. He didn't really need to keep a written record of anything for himself, having near-perfect recall, but he wasn't an idiot. If something happened to him, if he got seriously hurt, or died, or… or… his brain started to go, then the pack would need something like this. Backup Stiles.

Which was why he was using a real, physical notebook and not a word document on his computer. This would be much easier to find in the event of his untimely demise.

They still didn't know that much about Marcus, nothing really _helpful_ anyway. But enough background that Stiles knew the Alpha was a serious threat. Peter had managed to track him down on the website—apparently he went by the username Ra_Venous—and from there Peter had been able to piece together Marcus's background.

Marcus Laroque had been relatively unremarkable, as far as werewolves go, until sometime last year. Then, apparently without warning (as far as Peter could tell), he'd killed the Alpha of his pack. And not just any Alpha, but his own father. There'd been some kind of backlash from the other members of his pack but the dissenters had obviously been quelled because, only days after Marcus had taken over, the Oakridge pack had gone from fourteen members to ten.

Marcus hadn't stopped there though. Apparently unsatisfied with the size of his pack and his territory, Marcus had moved in on the next pack closest to his. He'd killed the Alpha—how, Peter hadn't been able to find out—and suddenly Marcus had commanded a pack of sixteen wolves.

Now, it seemed like Beacon Hills was next on his list.

Stiles made a final note to remind himself to ask either Scott or Isaac to print off a list of names of the members of Marcus's pack from the directory on the site, and then closed the notebook. He'd talk to them tomorrow. It was already getting kind of late and there was still one more thing he wanted to do before going to bed.

He bent down to grab his backpack and fished out his philosophy notebook, turning to the page where he'd written down Ethan's phone number. He wasn't sure if this was a good idea, wasn't sure why something so innocuous as a phone number left him feeling jittery, but he needed to make some kind of effort to move past Derek. And, like Danny had pointed out, it couldn't hurt.

Right?

Stiles created a new contact with Ethan's name and number and then stuffed his notebook back into his bag and sat, staring at the phone, suddenly feeling less sure of himself. Should he call? Text? He had no idea what the proper etiquette for something like this was. Drumming his fingers restlessly against the desk he checked the time—and realized it was a lot later than he'd thought it was. Past eleven already, and a school night at that.

Okay. Texting it was.

Sucking in a deep breath, Stiles tapped quickly at the keyboard and hit 'send' before he could second-guess himself.

**Hi, Ethan. It's Stiles.**

It was short. Was it too short? Would Ethan even text back? Should he have said something different? Should he have waited until tomorrow?

Unable to sit still any longer, Stiles got to his feet, pacing in front of his desk. He should have waited. After all this whole thing with his room and the book case, that had been about making it easier for him to sleep. Dumb to text someone so late at night and then be awake anxiously waiting for a reply.

Just as he was about to give up, turn his phone to silent and crawl into bed and ignore it till the next day, it rang. An actual ring. Not the single vibration of a text, but an actual ring of an actual phone. Stiles stared at the screen blankly for a second, at Ethan's name, and then hurried to swipe his thumb over to answer.

"Hello?"

"Hi," the voice on the other end of the line was warm, confident and amused, "You sound surprised."

"I—" Stiles ran a nervous hand through his hair, resuming his pacing. "I didn't think you'd _call_. No one actually uses phones as phones anymore." Uh-oh, did that sound ungrateful? "Not that—"

Ethan laughed and Stiles could picture his brown eyes sparkling like they did when they caught sight of Stiles in line for coffee. Stiles's mouth felt dry, and he wasn't sure what to make of that. Whether it was just nerves or something more.

"I don't call. Normally. But, well," there was an embarrassed pause. "I like you, Stiles. And you don't always come in on Friday mornings—"

(Because inevitably Stiles was running late on Fridays.)

"—So I wasn't sure if I'd see you tomorrow. And there's this party. Tomorrow night. I thought you might want to come?"

"Tomorrow night," Stiles repeated, his mind blank. Ethan was inviting him to a party. On a Friday night. Was that a date? Was he asking Stiles for a date?

"Yeah. My brother, Aiden, he's into that kind of thing. He's having some sort of thanksgiving party at our place—"

"A thanksgiving party?" Stiles interrupted, slightly incredulous.

"I know, it sounds stupid. But he'll take any excuse to get drunk and play loud music," Ethan explained. "He's calling it the 'Turkey Tourney' and there's a competition for best turkey costume and… that probably sounds horrible, I've never said it out loud before," embarrassment coloured Ethan's voice. "You know what, forget I asked."

"No, no," Stiles was grinning. "That actually sounds amazing. I'd like to go."

"Yeah?" Ethan sounded like he was grinning as well. "Awesome. You can bring a friend or two, if you want." He gave Stiles the address, Stiles scribbling it down on his philosophy notes, and told him to show up around ten.

"Okay, thanks. I'll see you tomorrow, then." Stiles was surprised by how casual he sounded. Like he got invited to parties by good-looking baristas all the time.

"I look forward to it. Good night, Stiles." And Ethan hung up.

* * *

"You and Allison," Stiles said without preamble as he shoved open the door to Scott's room. "You guys hooked up at a party, right?"

"What?" Scott twisted around in his desk chair as Stiles dropped gracelessly on top of his bed.

"Like, that's where the two of you became a thing, right?" Stiles was fidgeting with Scott's comforter, and not quite meeting Scott's eyes.

"Yeah, I guess. I mean, I sort of ran off on her and then Derek had to take her home and she wound up—"

"Okay, but," Stiles interrupted with a roll of his eyes, "Minus the stupid werewolf drama, that was, like, a date."

Scott shrugged, turning back to his computer. "I kinda thought it was, yeah." Man, he hadn't thought about that party in forever. It was hard to believe how different everything had been only a week or two before that night. How he'd just been a regular, stupid high school kid who didn't want anything except to get off the bench in a lacrosse game. He wondered what that version of him would think of who he was now. He was willing to bet he'd never have pictured himself as a freaking _werewolf_ (and not just an average werewolf—if there were such a thing as an 'average werewolf'—but an Alpha werewolf) and a freshman in college working on a degree in criminal justice.

It was crazy to think that back then he'd had no idea about this whole other supernatural world. Even after the bite, when he knew things were starting to get weird, his biggest focus had been wondering how he'd get to kiss Allison.

There was a soft twinge of sadness at that thought. It was somewhere between a wry mingling of regret and that odd feeling you got when you remembered what it was like to be so stupidly hopeful about a thing. He'd never imagined that he and Allison would end like this. Not that he'd really been capable of imagining them together before that night. When he had it'd been all shy handholding and corsages at prom and maybe getting a hand up her shirt eventually. They'd surpassed _that_ stage of things pretty quickly, and Scott had to bite back a grin as he remembered the hot and heavy make out sessions they'd had on her bed while her parents—

"Scott? Hello?"

Scott snapped back to the present at the sound of Stiles's annoyed voice. Obviously he'd been trying to get Scott's attention for a minute or so. "Sorry, dude. What?"

"Someone's asked me to a party," Stiles said in a rush. "And I don't know if it's like, a date."

Scott felt his face freeze and he had to force himself to pull his lips up in a grin. "Yeah? Dude, that's awesome." He wondered if Stiles could hear the strain in his voice, and hoped not.

"Is it?" Stiles sat up, chin in hands and looked imploringly at Scott. "How do I know if it's a date?"

"Well, do you want it to be a date?"

"I don't know…" Stiles looked away.

"When is it?"

"When is what?"

"The party, dumbass."

"Oh." A pause. "Tonight. Do you want to come?"

Scott laughed. "Yeah, right. I've got to get this assignment emailed by midnight and it's already six pm and I haven't even finished the reading. Besides, I thought you said it was a date?"

Stiles gave a groan of frustration and flopped back, staring up at the ceiling. "I said _I don't know_ if it's a date. And he said I could bring a friend."

"Wait—_he_?"

"Yes. Ethan. From the café."

"Oh." Scott frowned. He didn't have a problem with Stiles dating guys, obviously, but he hadn't realized it was _guys_ Stiles was into and not just _Derek_. Speaking (or, thinking) of, he really, really hoped Derek wouldn't find out about Ethan from the café. "Hold on—is it a date if you can bring a friend?"

"I don't know!" Stiles exclaimed. "That's the problem."

"Hmm." Scott frowned, thinking. "You should ask Danny to go with you." Danny was gay. And if Derek wasn't just an exception for Stiles then maybe Stiles could use a friend who understood.

Stiles made a thoughtful noise from the bed. "Do you think he's free tonight? I mean it's already, like, Friday evening. He probably has plans."

_Not anymore, he doesn't_. Scott surreptitiously pulled out his phone and sent a text, shamelessly utilizing his werewolf super-speed so that it was typed and sent before Stiles even realized he was on his phone. "You should give him a call. I'm sure he's free."

"Okay, yeah." Stiles pushed himself to his feet. "I will. Thanks, Scott." He patted his friend on the shoulder as he walked past, heading out of the room to go and track down his phone. "Good luck on your assignment."

"Have fun," Scott called after Stiles as he made his way down the hallway. Scott rubbed a hand over his face as he turned back to his computer. God, he hoped Stiles had fun. Hoped he had fun, was actually on a date with this Ethan, and managed to forget about Derek for a night, at least. Scott was tired of having to pretend he couldn't hear Stiles tossing and turning through the night. That he didn't see the dark circles under Stiles's eyes growing bigger every day.

Letting out a long, slow breath and trying not to think about how much of this was actually his fault, Scott picked up his highlighter and focused back on the textbook in front of him. Through the wall, he could hear Stiles ask Danny if he was busy tonight.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Stiles fought the urge to rub at the handprint of paint on his right cheek. It was itchy, and he should never have let Danny put a handprint turkey on his face. No one looked remotely attractive with a fucking turkey on their face. But he'd made the mistake of mentioning the theme of Ethan's brother's party to Danny, and Danny's face had lit up, this almost manic gleam in his eye, and suddenly he was slapping a paint covered hand to Stiles's cheek and telling him to sit still and stop _twitching_ or he would smudge it.

Stiles glanced sideways out of the corner of his eye at Danny and reflected that he should maybe just consider himself lucky that he'd escaped with only various thanksgiving shades of paint. He'd refused point blank to let Danny add googly eyes. He already had two eyes on his face and did not need another set. Danny, on the other hand, had taken the ridiculous theme to heart and was sporting a pair of tight yellow jeans, with what appeared to be a full set of turkey tail-feathers fastened above his ass, a brown t-shirt equally as tight as his pants, and a Perry the Platypus ball cap he'd painted brown to cover the green. It really should have looked ridiculous. Utterly, stupidly ridiculous, but Stiles was forced to admit that (somehow, impossibly) Danny did pull it off.

"Don't touch it!" Danny warned when Stiles's hand tried to creep up to his cheek to scratch. "It looks good, but it won't look good if you mess it up."

Stiles rolled his eyes but obediently stuffed his hands into the pockets of his red hoodie. He'd seen it in the mirror before they left Danny's dorm, and the turkey looked silly, not _good_. Okay, maybe the dark orange paint added a warm sort of glow to his skin. And the dark brown brought out his eyelashes in a weird way. Stiles couldn't understand how it worked, but suddenly they seemed, well, _lush,_ which was dumb. And then there was the gold-flecked liquid eyeliner (that battle he'd lost) that Danny had used in a couple different places to 'highlight' or whatever. And yeah, he guessed the glitter—glitter, ug—made his brown eyes sort of a luminous gold when it caught the light. Which was actually kind of cool. And so yeah, fine, maybe he understood why girls liked wearing makeup.

But he still thought it was dumb that he had to have a turkey on his face.

"What's the address again?"

Stiles rattled it off, pulling his phone out of his pocket to check the Google map. "It should be just around the corner."

And sure enough, as they turned the corner they spotted Ethan's place. Even without knowing the address it would have been difficult to miss. Someone—Aiden, Stiles assumed—had found a giant blow-up turkey and stuck it on the front lawn where it bobbed gently in the cool breeze, illuminated by a large, orange spotlight.

"Awesome," Danny grinned, teasing. "Who knew your barista-boy threw such cool parties?"

Stiles elbowed him, scowling. "Don't call him that."

They crossed up the driveway to the door and when Stiles hesitated, fingers hovering over the doorbell, Danny laughed, shoved him aside, and pushed the door open.

They'd been able to hear the throb of the bass from the end of the street and, now that they were inside, Stiles could feel it in his bones. Everywhere he looked people were sporting multiple shades of orange, feathers, and there was at least one girl wearing what looked like actual turkey drumsticks on her chest. Danny whooped and pulled a beer out of their six pack before shoving the rest at Stiles. Then he vanished into the crowd, his tail feathers wagging merrily behind him.

"Great," Stiles muttered, suddenly feeling very underdressed. Maybe he should have let Danny talk him into wearing his own turkey tail. Trying not to meet anyone's eye he inched further into the house, intent on finding a fridge or an ice bucket where he could stash the beer.

He'd thought about bringing a bottle of wine since he greatly preferred that to beer, but 'wine' still said 'Derek,' so he'd halted that idea in its tracks.

"Stiles!" A pleased voice sounded from above him and, startled, Stiles glanced up to see Ethan leaning over the second floor balcony. "Stay there, I'm coming down."

"Uh, sure?" Stiles banished all thoughts of Derek from his head and tried to focus on Ethan coming down the stairs. Which wasn't hard, considering he was seemingly the only person in the house _not_ dressed like a turkey. Ethan was, in fact, wearing a chef's smock and hat, and, to top it all off, carrying a turkey baster.

"I like your costume," Stiles said with a laugh as Ethan finally appeared in front of him.

"Thanks," Ethan grinned, unabashed, "I thought I'd go for something different."

"It looks great," Stiles offered, trying to ignore the way Ethan's muscular body filled out the crisp white fabric.

"So do you," Ethan brought a hand up before Stiles could move, and traced lightly over the paint on Stiles's cheek. Stiles's breath caught in his throat, held there as Ethan's fingers glided over his skin. "Very sexy. For, you know, a turkey."

Stiles choked on a laugh. "Thanks. Thanks for that."

"Anytime," Ethan replied with a wink, dropping his hand. His eyes moved down to where Stiles held the six pack. "Is that all you brought?"

"Yeah. I mean, I'm sharing with my buddy Danny who's…" Stiles scanned the crowd but couldn't see Danny. "Well, here, somewhere."

"Sharing?" Ethan said incredulously. "Trust me, you're going to need more than three bottles of beer to get through a turkey party. Come on," he reached down and grabbed Stiles's free hand with his, closing his fingers tight. "I'll show you where the kitchen—and the keg—is."

* * *

Several hours later Stiles found himself sprawled drunkenly beside Ethan on the other boy's bed, arguing heatedly over Jack Harkness's deadly choice at the end of _Torchwood's Children of Earth_ series.

"He didn't have to do it," Ethan was insisting, twisting up on an elbow to talk to Stiles, whose head was at the other end of the bed. "He should have found another way."

"No," Stiles disagreed vehemently. "It was the _only_ way. He did the only thing he could." He propped himself up to look back at Ethan, trying to ignore the way the lower half of Ethan's body was pressed up alongside his own.

"He killed his own grandson!" Ethan's cheeks were flushed, whether from the beer or… something else, Stiles wasn't sure.

"Sacrificed," Stiles corrected, pulling himself up so that he was sitting upright and able to focus on Ethan's face more easily. "Jack's the guy who makes the hard choices. The ones no one else can make, but _someone_ has to," he leaned in closer to emphasize his point. "Gryffindor." He wondered if anyone had ever told Ethan that his eyes were the exact shade of brown of good, hot coffee just before you added cream. Rich and dark and burning.

"You're wrong," Ethan pushed himself up as well so he and Stiles were now face to face. "Slytherin." His breath ghosted against Stiles's cheek and Stiles swallowed.

"It's brave," Stiles murmured, not even sure if Ethan could hear him with the music still pounding loudly through the house, overwhelming even with Ethan's bedroom door closed. "Making the tough calls. It's brave."

"It's ruthless." Ethan moved closer and Stiles stilled, but all Ethan did was reach past Stiles for the red solo cup of beer he'd placed on the bedside table, pulling back to bring it to his lips.

Stiles's mouth felt suddenly dry as he watched Ethan tilt the cup back and swallow.

"You want some?" Ethan asked, lowering the cup as he licked a drop of beer from his lips. Stiles nodded, unable to look away from Ethan's mouth. Ethan passed the cup to Stiles and Stiles blinked, trying to clear his head as he took a long drink, the cold beer clearing his head slightly.

Cup empty, Stiles twisted around to place it on the table. When he turned back Ethan moved, crawling up between Stiles's legs so that Stiles could now feel the heat of him. Something clenched low in Stiles's belly as he unconsciously parted his legs so Ethan could move closer.

His eyes dropped once again to Ethan's lips and he felt his own lips part, tongue darting out to wet them.

He was drunk, drunker than he'd been in a long time. It wasn't a sad, alone-in-his-room-mourning-his-breakup drunk, but a fun, giddy, party drunk. He was drunk and spread out over another guy's bed and it was thanksgiving break and there was a painted turkey on the side of his face and Ethan's chef's smock was half-unbuttoned and Stiles could see the smooth line of muscled chest and he wanted to reach out and run his fingers down it and see how much of Ethan was smooth. He could feel himself hard in his jeans and Ethan's lips were so close to his and before Stiles could think better of it he'd closed the distance between them.

Ethan's lips opened greedily against his and Ethan's tongue swiped against his own as Ethan pressed him back against the bed, his hands running up Stiles's sides and parting Stiles's unzipped hoodie so they could skim over his ribs. Stiles could feel them warm and rough through the fabric of his t-shirt. Stiles's fingers fumbled with the remaining buttons on Ethan's costume, his senses overwhelmed with the intensity of the kiss.

Then, finally, there was nothing between his hands and Ethan's naked skin and it was hot, so hot under his palms and Stiles bit off a moan as Ethan's mouth moved from his to press wet and open against his neck. Ethan rose briefly to shuck off the smock before coming back down to push Stiles's hoodie halfway down his arms so he had better access to Stiles's throat.

Stiles arched up as Ethan's weight settled heavily between his legs, feeling the line of Ethan's cock hard against his hip. Ethan groaned as Stiles pushed up into him and he ground himself down onto Stiles as his lips fastened back against Stiles's throat and, suddenly, bit.

Stiles bucked, fingers digging bruisingly hard into the soft flesh of Ethan's hips as he felt teeth close around him. Ethan gave a slight shudder and suddenly Stiles realized his hold was probably too rough, too tight, and he let go immediately. He wasn't used to human skin, hadn't ever had to worry about leaving bruises or hurting Derek because Derek would heal within seconds. So Stiles had gotten used to being careless, secure in the knowledge that he couldn't accidentally hurt because compared to Derek his strength was nothing. But this wasn't Derek. And Stiles's strength wasn't _nothing_ because he was strong now. Not werewolf strong. Not even, like, Argent strong. But stronger than he used to be. And this wasn't Derek. Oh god, this wasn't Derek this was some poor, naive human who worked in a coffee shop and who Stiles had hurt just now because he was used to running with—to fucking—werewolves.

Werewolf.

Ethan had moved from Stiles's throat and was mouthing at his collarbone, and Stiles pressed his hands to Ethan's shoulders and pushed him off.

"Stiles, what-?" Ethan was asking, brown eyes wide and hurt and bewildered.

"I'm sorry," Stiles scrambled off the bed, pulling his hoodie back up and stuffing his fingers into his pockets, not trusting himself. "I can't. I can't do this."

He'd thought he was fine. Or numb, at least. Numb without the help of drugs or booze. And numb and fine were the same, if you really thought about it. He'd thought maybe he could do like Danny had suggested—that fooling around with Ethan would be harmless, would maybe help. But it wasn't _harmless_ because Stiles wasn't _harmless_. He'd hurt, and he was hurt, and why did he think that he could do this and that it wouldn't, somehow, all lead back to Derek?

"I'm sorry, Ethan, really, I…" but he couldn't bear to finish. He couldn't stay in this room with Ethan half-naked with flushed skin that probably had bruises dug into it if Stiles could bring himself to look but he couldn't and so he turned blindly and made his way out the door. Stumbled down the hallway and the stairs, pushed through the writhing dancing crowd, ignoring Danny's shouted "Stiles!" until he found the front door and once he got it open and the cold air hit his face, Stiles began to run.

He made it a block, two, before he began to stumble, legs clumsy with the alcohol and more a liability than an asset. Slowing to a walk with his breathing as ragged as his heartbeat, Stiles hung his head and tried not to think of anything. Tried to make his mind blank and empty and numb like it had been earlier. But he was past that. Too drunk and too tired to be able to control his thoughts, which spun wildly out of control, circling the one topic he wanted nothing more than to erase from his memory.

Derek's full, soft lips brushing lightly against his. Derek's hands hard on Stiles's skin, rough and just the right side of painful to leave bruises in their wake. The way Derek's scruff burned as it rasped over Stiles's neck, his ribcage, his calf. The feel of Derek's back, muscles working underneath the skin as he thrust himself into Stiles and the way Derek arched and his mouth opened and his eyes closed and the shuddering, pulsing way he came inside him.

Stiles stumbled, tripping over a crack in the sidewalk. He skinned the palm of his hand against the cement as he tried to catch himself, but still landed hard on his knees. The pain was sharp, sudden, bringing with it an awful kind of clarity that left him immobile, frozen on the sidewalk on his hands and knees with his head hanging in shame.

He was not this person. He was not this weak, emotionally crippled, embarrassing wreck of a person. He was not the guy who got so drunk at a party that his coordination faltered and his vision went hazy, the guy who made out with a relative stranger because he thought the taste of another person's mouth would erase the memory of someone else.

Only he'd done all of that. Which must mean he was that person.

Stiles pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the burn of his right hand and the blood that had oozed to the surface of the torn skin. He should be disgusted, repulsed by the desperation that had him shoving his bleeding hand into his jeans to pull out his phone. But he wasn't. He typed in Derek's number from memory, fingers moving with the careful precision of the very drunk. Then he hit 'call', bringing the phone up tight to his ear as he started walking again.

Derek answered before the first ring had even finished, voice clipped with worry. "What's wrong?"

Stiles's breathing hitched, as uneven as his pace as he continued down the sidewalk with little regard to where he was going.

"Stiles?" Derek's voice was rising, urgent. "It's late. Talk to me. Is it Marcus? Did something happen?" When Stiles didn't reply Derek growled with frustration. "Are you okay?"

"No," Stiles finally managed, leaving the sidewalk for a pathway that led into a park. "I am not okay." He found a bench and sat down heavily, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

"Tell me what happened," Derek softened his voice, worry smoothing the roughness of the growl.

"I was at a party. A guy invited me. A cute guy." A pause. "He works at the café and he knows my coffee order and he kissed me."

There was silence on the other end of the line. Stiles ignored it and continued. "And I kissed him. And we kissed. We did more than kiss," he laughed, bitter and jagged. "I could have fucked him. I could have let him fuck me. But you know what?"

He waited, but Derek said nothing. Stiles wasn't even sure if he could hear the werewolf breathing or not. "I couldn't do it," he said, finally, "I couldn't stand his hands on me, because they weren't yours. I don't want anyone else to touch me but _you_," his voice broke on a sob.

"Stiles," Derek said slowly. "Are you drunk?"

"Am I-?" Stiles gave another choking laugh. "Yeah, Derek. I'm drunk. I do that now. Not wine, obviously. I can't drink wine anymore because it always tastes like you. But Scott took my pills—they were helping, you know—so now I drink."

"Tell me where you are." Derek's voice wasn't so soft anymore, had an edge to it now.

Stiles ignored it. "But it's not enough. It's never enough. It's not you. I need you, Derek. I can't breathe without you. I can't think, can't sleep, can't function. I'm a…" he paused, trying to find the right word that would encompass the pathetic, broken mess he'd become. "A wreck." A twisted, metal-screeching, burned out husk of a wreck.

"Where are you?"

"Just come back," Stiles was begging now. Shamelessly. "Just come back. I don't care if you don't love me, just pretend you do, okay? You don't have to say it, you don't have to actually lie," his voice was raw, desperate and urgent and pleading, tears rolling steadily down his face. "Please. I swear if you come back it'll be like nothing happened. It'll be like before when we were good. When we were happy. We could do that again. Be that again. Please, please, please, please, please—" his breath was coming too fast now, panic fluttering in his lungs. "Say you'll do it, Derek, say you'll—"

"Stiles."

Stiles stopped, barely breathing with hope aching in his chest.

"I'm going to get Isaac to come get you. It would be helpful if you could tell me where you are, but he'll find you either way."

Stiles felt everything come crashing down around him and he had to bite back another sob. He didn't want Isaac. If Derek didn't want him, Stiles didn't want to do anything but curl up on this bench and stay there until he couldn't feel anything ever again.

Through the phone Stiles could hear Derek say something to someone else, and then Peter's voice replied muffled in the background.

"Peter's calling Isaac. He'll be there soon."

Stiles said nothing, didn't have words left. He slid sideways, face pressing against the seat of the bench. The metal was cold enough that it burned against the side of his face.

"I need you to keep talking to me," Derek was saying, but Stiles closed his eyes and brought the phone away from his ear, pressing his thumb down until the phone powered off.

* * *

"Stiles?" There was an odd note to Isaac's voice when, sometime later—Hours? Minutes?—Stiles opened his eyes to see his roommate crouched in front of him.

"Isaac," Stiles replied flatly, pushing himself up so that he was sitting on the bench instead of lying on it. His body felt stiff and he couldn't decide if it was because he'd been in the same position for so long or simply due to the cold.

Isaac rose to his feet, his eyes no longer focused on Stiles. "Stiles," he repeated, almost absently as his gaze swept the grass and trees of the park. "Who were you with tonight?"

"Why?" Stiles stood, still unsteady enough that he kept a hand braced on the back of the bench. "What does it matter?" It wasn't like Derek cared. And despite all of Isaac's painfully un-subtle attempts to ride herd on Stiles, he wasn't Stiles's keeper. In fact, Stiles was getting pretty fucking sick of seeing Isaac's worried face peeking around corners and hovering anxiously in the background. He just wanted to be left alone.

Then, through the misery and alcohol-induced fog clouding his mind Stiles slowly became aware of the tension thrumming through Isaac's body and a sliver of fear sliced through the fuzzy edges of his brain.

"Why does it matter?" Stiles asked again, voice sharper.

"Because," Isaac turned to look at Stiles and his eyes had bled bright, burning yellow. "You smell like wolf."

Stiles felt his entire body still, hand tightening white-knuckled around the bench. "I went to a party, with Danny," he managed through lips that felt numb. "There were lots of—"

"No," Isaac cut him off, shaking his head. "It's all over you."

Stiles swallowed, heart thudding against his chest with enough force that it almost distracted from the ringing in his ears. "All over me."

"Yes." Impatient now Isaac grabbed for Stiles's wrist, tugging him forward to the path. "I can smell him on your skin.

Stiles's brain, still so sluggish and stupid with the alcohol, struggled to connect the dots. _Ethan_. Ethan was a werewolf. The handsome barista with the cheeky grin and the sparkling eyes was a werewolf. And so it couldn't be coincidence, him flirting. Asking Stiles out. Because those kinds of things didn't just _happen_. So Stiles had been, all along, a target.

"Is there some sort of sign around my neck?" Stiles yanked his hand out of Isaac's grip, stumbled back, voice rising. "Something written in invisible ink that you have to be a werewolf to read?"

Isaac turned, brow furrowed. "What are you—"

"Maybe it's on my back," Stiles gave an exaggerated spin like he was looking for something taped to his hoodie.

"We don't have time for this right now." Isaac's lips had thinned, jaw clenched with impatience.

"Why not?" Stiles stepped back again when Isaac reached out. "Obviously whatever supernatural drama that's going on is going to find me. No matter where I am or who I'm with."

"Yes, Stiles," Isaac snapped, clearly done with Stiles's latest bout of self-pity. "Because this is all about you."

"Uh-oh," Stiles matched sarcasm with sarcasm, lips curling up in a sneer. "Are you feeling neglected? Invisible? Like now that Allison's gone and Scott's busy plotting with Derek and Peter, and Danny's got Jackson back, no one wants to hang out with poor orphan Isaac anymore?"

Isaac's hands curled into fists, taking a deep breath like he was just barely stopping himself from punching Stiles.

"I bet you wish it was _you_ who got conned into dry-humping one of the bad guys," Stiles continued, blithe.

"And why's that?"

"Cause then you'd get a little of that attention you're dying for. You were probably green with envy that it was my shoulder they dislocated when they came into town, instead of yours."

"Well, if that's what you want," said an amused voice from the trees behind Isaac. "I think we can probably make that happen."

Stiles froze, eyes wide as he watched Ethan step out from the shadows. Except, no—no it wasn't Ethan because he carried himself differently. Swaggered, with a cruel grin that looked totally out of place on the face that looked identical to Ethan's.

"Is this your barista?" Isaac had half turned and now he looked back at Stiles, eyebrows raised and contemptuous.

"No," this time the voice came from behind Stiles and Stiles jumped, would have maybe bolted except he found his hoodie caught tight in someone else's hand. "That would be me." Ethan yanked Stiles back, closer to him, and when Stiles began to struggle—clumsy and uncoordinated, still drunk—simply placed his hand around Stiles's throat and the light prick of claws against his jugular made Stiles freeze.

"Hi," the first twin extended his hand to Isaac like he expected the other werewolf to come and shake it. "I'm Aiden."


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Isaac didn't move, claws sliding out from the tips of his fingers. "Let me guess," he said sardonically, "Marcus sent you?"

"Yes, he did." Aiden waited a beat, nonchalant, and then dropped his hand.

Behind them, Stiles was starting to struggle again. His hands wrapped ineffectively around Ethan's wrist, trying to pull the werewolf's claws away from his throat. "Get off me," he demanded, grunting with the effort of trying to move Ethan's arm.

"Sorry, Stiles," Ethan was surprisingly apologetic, but his grip didn't loosen. The hot ball of misery that had been sitting like a lump in Stiles's stomach since he'd fled the party was slowly mutating, curdling with anger.

"And he sent you to, what, beat up Stiles again? I guess he doesn't trust you guys to actually hold your own against another werewolf." Isaac's scorn was as thick as honey.

Aiden laughed, flicking his gaze to where his brother held Stiles. "Oh no, we weren't going to hurt him again. Ethan was supposed to fuck him. And then we'd send him back to you," he focused back on Isaac. "He does live with you, Isaac, right? You and that second, 'secret' Alpha."

Stiles could see Isaac tense, nostrils flare in surprise, startled enough that they knew about Scott—how did they know about Scott?—to let his bravado slip.

"We know your pet human is _very_ close to the Alphas of your pack," Aiden continued, smirking. "I think they'd be pretty pissed if he came home smelling like one of us. Inside and out."

Stiles flushed, shame spreading like a stain over his face, and he struggled harder, hating the feeling of Ethan's body pressed hard against his.

"They might even have blamed you for that, don't you think?" Aiden took a step closer to Isaac. "Or maybe each other. They are both screwing him, right?" He grinned. "No other reason to keep a human around. Kinda sick, if you ask me."

Isaac growled, fangs beginning to show from beneath his lips.

"But I shouldn't expect any better from a pack as fucked up as yours." Now Aiden's eyes were beginning to bleed from dark brown to a chilly, luminous blue. "You should leave it. Join us."

"Not a chance," Isaac began to say, but Aiden lashed out with a hand gone deadly with claws. Isaac tried to pull back but he wasn't fast enough and they raked across his face, blood flying.

"Why don't we see if I can change your mind?"

Isaac was still reeling from the first attack when Aiden came for him again, and the second blow sent Isaac sprawling to the ground. Still, this wasn't Isaac's first fight. A split second later he was up and flinging himself at Aiden, using the hard-packed dirt path to spring up with extra force.

Aiden must not have expecting such a quick recovery because Isaac barrelled straight into him, knocking the wind out of the blonde boy and sending them both crashing back to the ground.

Over the past year Derek had revamped his training program and the whole pack had been expected to take part. Not only that, but Allison had worked with them, teaching the wolves not only how to fight with brute strength and teeth and claws but how to fight with actual strategy. And it was paying off.

Aiden managed to get out from under Isaac, blood seeping from a long gash in his side where Isaac's claws had sunk in deep. His eyes glittered, hard and angry, and when Isaac rolled back, getting to his feet in one smooth motion, Aiden lunged for Isaac's middle, apparently trying to repeat the move Isaac had used so successfully on him.

But Isaac was ready, waiting for it—the all-out-tackle was a favourite of Jackson's, left over from lacrosse, or so Stiles always suspected—and he stepped easily to the side, pivoted, and struck out with a solid fist as Aiden flew past, sending the werewolf tumbling through the air with the force of the blow.

Behind Stiles, Ethan snarled and shoved Stiles out of his way, racing towards Isaac. Stiles stumbled and fell, tripping over the foot of the bench and cracking his head back against the metal seat. Pain lanced bright and excruciating down his spine, his vision blurring until all he could see was vague movement in front of him.

There was a yelp of pain and then another body hit the ground, the sound of claws rending through flesh like wet paper. Stiles blinked, pushing himself up slowly until he was sitting, fighting a wave of dizziness that almost sent him slumping back to the grass.

After a moment, his vision cleared and he was able to focus on the scene in front of him. All three wolves were on their feet now, circling their opponents warily. Ethan had what looked like a chunk bitten out of the flesh of his upper arm, Aiden's side was still bleeding through his shirt, and, Stiles had a moment to think this was a bit odd, the wounds on Isaac's face hadn't yet begun to heal.

The moment of puzzlement flew out of his mind the second his gaze lowered because there was a large, ragged tear across Isaac's stomach and Stiles realized with absolute horror that he could see the pink gleam of intestines through it.

Stiles shifted, fingers scrabbling at his jeans for his phone and the movement caught Ethan's attention. He looked back, teeth bared menacingly, and moved forward.

"Is that all you've got?" Isaac managed to sound just barely out of breath, his voice bored enough to be cocky and his arms held loose and relaxed at his sides. The disinterest in his tone had Ethan whipping back around as Aiden roared in fury, lunging again at Isaac one after the other.

They drove Isaac to the ground with enough force that Stiles could feel it reverberate in his bones. He knew what Isaac was doing, knew he was distracting them so that Stiles could get up, get away. Fucking Isaac.

Ethan was holding Isaac down now, pinning his arms while Aiden straddled him and began to tear at Isaac's exposed chest and belly. Isaac bit back a scream, struggling wildly to throw the two of them off, but together they were strong enough that all he could do was buck and writhe and—when he was no longer able to keep silent—scream as blood and viscera poured out of him.

Fear and rage snarled in Stiles's chest and he finally managed to grab his phone in shaking hands, bringing it up to hit Scott's number.

"Get here. Now," was all he said when Scott answered, hanging up and tossing the phone to the ground beside him. He had to do something. They were going to kill Isaac. There was only so much damage a werewolf's body could take and Stiles could only assume that if Aiden continued to rip mercilessly at Isaac's torso it would have the same effect as a broadsword.

Stiles used the bench to pull himself to his feet, resolutely ignoring the sickening throb of his head. Before he could think better of it he ran forwards, letting his momentum carry him straight into Aiden and shoving the werewolf off of Isaac.

Aiden hit Stiles across the face, rolled out from under him and was back on his feet in a flash. "I will kill you," he swore, leaning down and grabbing a handful of Stiles's hair in his hands, yanking Stiles's head back so his throat was exposed. Isaac's screaming had stopped, the silence ringing in Stiles's ears almost as loudly as the agonized screams had, so Stiles just grinned up at Aiden through bloodied teeth.

"Don't," Ethan pushed Aiden back, voice low. "You know the rules."

"He doesn't count as human," Aiden insisted, shoving at his brother who'd stepped between him and Stiles. "He's part of their pack."

"It doesn't matter. He's human. You know what Marcus will do if you kill one," Ethan was speaking rapidly and Stiles looked past him at Isaac who was still lying flat on his back, his stomach so torn up and bloody that Stiles couldn't tell if it was healing.

"Fine," Aiden growled, stepping back. "I won't kill _him_." He turned, gaze fixed back on Isaac.

"No," Ethan grabbed his brother's arm, stopping him again and Aiden whirled back, furious. "We don't have time. The human called the Alpha, we've got to go."

Aiden made a wordless sound of rage, claws flexing like he was tempted to break free of Ethan's grip and finish Isaac off anyway. But then he stilled, as did Ethan beside him. They must have heard something because suddenly they both took off into the woods without another word.

Shaking with adrenaline, Stiles waited, frozen, but they didn't turn back and so he picked himself up and crawled to Isaac.

"Isaac, hey, are you okay?" He didn't want to see the damage up close, but he needed to know if the werewolf was healing or not. Gritting his teeth, the hot, meaty smell of blood thick on his tongue, Stiles gripped Isaac's shoulder in comfort and looked down.

For a moment his brain refused to make sense of what he was seeing, refused to see the gore as anything other than an abstract mess of red, but then it sharpened into focus and Stiles choked on a moan. He didn't know if Isaac could heal this. He didn't know if an _Alpha_ would be able to heal this. As it was, none of the flesh was knitting itself back together the way Stiles had grown used to seeing. It just sat there, torn open and inert, and Stiles forced himself to look away, up at Isaac's pale face.

"Scott's on his way. He's gonna be here any minute, buddy." He thought he saw one of Isaac's eyelids twitch but hoped Isaac wouldn't regain consciousness. He didn't know what he'd do if Isaac started screaming again.

* * *

Minutes, hours, seconds later, there was the sound of slamming car doors, feet pounding against the pavement and then Scott's hands, careful over Stiles's blood soaked ones where Stiles was holding his red hoodie—now black with blood—against Isaac's midsection.

"I didn't know what to do," Stiles said helplessly as Scott gently pulled his hands away and replaced them with his own. Danny and Jackson had been only seconds behind Scott and now they knelt on Isaac's other side.

"What the hell happened?" Jackson asked, looking up at Stiles with accusing eyes. "Danny said you ran out of the party and then when he couldn't find you he came back to Scott's. We were playing Mario Kart with Isaac and then _he_ gets a call and vanishes, and now we find him like this? What did you do?"

"Shut up, Jackson," Scott said, without looking up from where he was peeling the sweater off of Isaac.

"Should you be doing that?" Danny asked nervously. "What if he bleeds out?"

"I'm more worried about Isaac healing around the fabric than him losing too much blood," Scott replied, voice grim.

Jackson levelled another glare at Stiles but Stiles ignored it, watching Scott's hands raise the hoodie, breath held in the hope that underneath it would reveal smooth, perfect skin. But Isaac's stomach was as much of a mess as earlier and out of the corner of his eye he could see Danny stumble abruptly to his feet and take several rapid steps back, bracing himself against the trunk of a tree as he vomited.

"Why isn't he healing?" Jackson demanded.

"I don't know." Scott pressed the hoodie back down. "We have to get him to Deaton. And someone needs to call Derek."

Jackson stared at Stiles who refused to meet his eyes. With a snort of disgust Jackson got to his feet and went to check on Danny, pulling his phone out from his jacket and pressing it to his ear.

"Can you do anything?" Stiles asked Scott quietly as Jackson started speaking into the phone, presumably to Derek.

"I'll try when we get him to the car." Peter had told them once that werewolves could share other people's pain. Neither Scott nor Derek had ever had a chance to try it, since Peter had stressed it could seriously drain their energy and wasn't something to experiment with lightly.

"He'll meet us there." Jackson stuck his phone back in his pocket and returned with a still white-faced Danny.

"Here," Scott tossed Jackson the keys to Stiles's jeep. "Danny and Stiles can help me get him to the car." Stiles had no doubt that Scott was perfectly capable of carrying Isaac's dead—don't think dead, _not dead_—weight with ease, but it was obvious he wanted to jostle Isaac as little as possible in case they made things worse.

* * *

Less than ten minutes later they were racing down the highway, Jackson using his superhuman reflexes to zip in and out of traffic at a terrifying speed. Danny was in the passenger seat beside him, his eyes squeezed shut so he didn't have to see each near-miss.

In the back, Stiles was pushed up against the side, back bent at an awkward angle as he held Isaac's head and shoulders in his lap, trying to keep the werewolf as still as possible while the jeep jolted back and forth across lanes of traffic. Scott had Isaac's lower half across his lap and was holding both of Isaac's hands tightly, face screwed up in concentration as he tried to… well, Stiles wasn't exactly sure what Scott was trying to do. But it didn't look like it was working, because despite the apparent effort on Scott's part, Isaac wasn't improving.

"How much longer?" Stiles asked Jackson, not taking his eyes off Isaac's chest as it rose and fell with his shallow breathing.

Jackson glanced back at them, earning a long blast from someone's horn as he nearly rear-ended them. Turning his attention back to the road he answered through gritted teeth, "Fifteen minutes, maybe twenty. If we had the Porsche instead of your stupid jeep—"

"Well we don't, okay?" Stiles snapped. "I'm sorry I ruined your night of Mario Kart, but could you stop bitching at me and concentrate on—"

"Shut. Up." Scott's voice rippled with anger. "Both of you." When Stiles looked up, Scott's eyes were red and furious, and Stiles swallowed back the 'but he started it' whine that had been on the tip of his tongue.

Stiles knew that would have been a totally inappropriate response, knew that fighting with Jackson over something this stupid was entirely counter productive and outright disrespectful when Isaac might be literally _dying_ in his lap. But he wasn't feeling like himself. Wasn't feeling like regular Stiles who had his shit together and held up like iron under a crisis. This Stiles, the Stiles whose skin he currently inhabited, felt superfluous. Like nothing he did had any kind of effect. It didn't matter if he was minding his own business walking down the street, or ordering coffee, or drunk-dialling his ex. Somehow, no matter how innocuous his actions, someone would get hurt. And when they did—whether it was him or someone else lying on the ground, bleeding—Stiles couldn't do a thing to stop it.

He couldn't protect himself and he couldn't protect anyone around him. With the rate that Marcus's pack was coming after him, Stiles was a liability. A huge, walking target. Somehow, Ethan and Aiden had known that Scott was an Alpha, the same as Derek, and not only that but they knew that Stiles was close to both of them—and it was obvious that they intended to use that closeness to hurt Stiles's pack.

If Stiles wanted to be something more than an obvious weak spot he was going to have to start learn how to defend himself using something a little more effective than sarcasm—and soon.

Finally, with a squeal of tires, Jackson pulled into the parking lot of the veterinary office. He was out of the jeep in a flash, coming around to help Scott manoeuvre Isaac out. Peter and Derek spilled out of the front doors of the clinic and hurried over, wearing their own expressions of worry.

Once Isaac was safely in Scott and Jackson's hands, Stiles pushed out of the jeep after them, moving quickly with Danny to hold open the clinic doors. Scott and Jackson carried Isaac through, Derek and Peter following close behind, voices overlapping as they tried to get answers from Scott.

Scott brushed the two Hales off, taking Isaac into the back room and lowering him gently onto one of Deaton's stainless steel tables and stepping back as Deaton moved in, pulling on a pair of gloves and gingerly pulling back Stiles's hoodie from Isaac's middle.

"Alright, Scott," Deaton dropped Stiles's ruined hoodie into a bin and returned to examine the hideous wounds on Isaac's body. "Can you tell me how this happened?"

"He's not healing," Scott reached up to run a worried hand through his hair, stopping at the last second when he realized his hands, like Stiles's, were covered in Isaac's blood.

"Yes, I can see that." Deaton's demeanour was surprisingly patient, a calm counterpoint to the anxiety running high throughout the rest of the room. Peter had resorted to pacing near the doorway. Jackson and Danny slid into stools at the second table, Danny bracing his elbows on the table, head in his hands, and Jackson drumming his fingers impatiently against his thighs. Derek stood at Isaac's head, arms crossed over his chest. His unnatural stillness told Stiles that the Alpha was only just hanging onto control.

Stiles, who'd tucked himself out of the way to the side of the door, leaned back against the wall, wincing at the pressure on what was probably a goose egg, and closed his eyes, fighting the settling press of exhaustion. "It was Ethan," he said, "And his brother, Aiden." His voice was steady, a lot steadier than he felt. He continued talking, eyes still closed, unable to face the ruin of Isaac's body. "I didn't know what Ethan was, and he invited me to a party…."

He told them what happened as quickly as possible, skipping over his drunk, desperate call to Derek, but not flinching from his role as accomplice—unwitting or not—in what happened to Isaac.

"Thank you, Stiles," Deaton said when Stiles had fallen silent. "Now, I believe Aiden—the werewolf who you say inflicted most of this damage—had some sort of paralytic on his claws. I don't know if it was natural, supernatural, or pharmaceutically manufactured, but it seems to be preventing Isaac's healing process."

"Why would he do that?" Derek asked sharply. "Why bother adding a paralyzing agent when they were after Stiles," the _again_ hung in the air, unsaid. "He wouldn't have needed an extra edge against a human."

"Because," Stiles forced out, nearly choking on the humiliation of having to say it. "They never planned on hurting me—not like that. I screwed up their plan by leaving. They must have guessed I'd wind up calling one of you."

He didn't need to open his eyes to know the entire room was looking at him, confused.

"If they didn't want to hurt you, what—" Scott started carefully, but Stiles cut him off.

"Ethan was supposed to fuck me. So I'd come back home smelling like… one of them." Now he opened his eyes, meeting Scott's. "They know you're an Alpha, and they know I'm close to you," he hesitated, "And to Derek. They were just going to use me to make you angry." _Again_.

There was a long pause and Stiles shut his eyes again, leaning his head gingerly back against the wall. Apparently whatever means Marcus's pack had used to find out about Scott hadn't also revealed that Stiles now meant next to nothing to Derek.

"How do they know so much about us?" Jackson's voice rang out, accusing. "How do they know about Scott?"

And then everyone seemed to start talking at once, volume rising as they all tried to be heard over one another.

Stiles tuned it out, tried to focus on the slow in-and-out of his own breathing. He'd been used again, but he swore it would be the last time he would ever be this vulnerable. He couldn't keep being the pack's weak link.

A hand, warm and solid, cupped against his face. Stiles's eyes blinked open to see Peter, standing in front of him, frowning in concern. Stiles's first instinct was to pull away, not wanting or trusting Peter so close to him, but he couldn't move with the wall at his back.

"You're freezing," Peter observed, rough voice juxtaposed against the gentleness of his hand on Stiles's skin. Behind Peter the fighting continued, but Peter's attention was wholly on Stiles. "It's easy for them to forget," he continued, his thumb stroking over Stiles's cheekbone, "That you're human. That you can't be outside at two in the morning, in November, wearing nothing but a bloody t-shirt."

At the reminder, Stiles shivered, suddenly aware of how the material clung, wet and clammy, against his skin. If the surprising heat of Peter's hand was any indication, he was chilled to the bone and hadn't even realized it. He'd been too focused on Isaac, too scared to think of anything but the damage done to his friend.

Peter's hand withdrew and Stiles had to bite back an involuntary protest, hugging his arms to his chest because now that he'd started shivering he couldn't stop. Peter shrugged out of his leather jacket, tugged Stiles forward, and wrapped the jacket around Stiles's shoulders.

Stiles sank gratefully into the warmth, the residual heat from Peter's body seeping into his skin. "Thank you," he said, grateful despite himself.

"It's nothing," Peter dismissed. "I'm sorry no one noticed before." He pulled the jacket tighter around Stiles, and Stiles looked up to see Derek watching them, his eyes hard and flat. But then Deaton's voice broke through the clamour that was Scott and Jackson and Danny still arguing.

"Derek, I'd like you to come try something."

Derek turned to Deaton, shifting so that his back was now to Stiles and Peter. Stiles wondered if that had been deliberate.

"Now, Scott told me he tried to take some of Isaac's pain on the way here. He wasn't able to, but I'm wondering if that's because he's new to his powers. You have more experience as an Alpha, you might be able to help."

"What would taking his pain do?" Danny asked. "He's not even conscious."

"I'm hopeful that by channelling Isaac's pain Derek will be able to free up some of Isaac's energy, the energy that is currently being used to fight the pain of his injuries. If Isaac has more energy to draw from his body should be able to start fighting the paralytic, and that extra boost might be enough to kick-start the healing process."

Derek nodded, stepping closer to Isaac and placing his hands on Isaac's shoulders. From Stiles's vantage point he could see Derek's back tense, muscles quivering with the effort to do, well, whatever weird metaphysical thing Peter had described to them. After a long moment, sweat beginning to bead on the back of Derek's neck, Deaton shook his head.

"Thank you for trying."

"What now?" Scott asked, coming up to stand beside Deaton, looking anxiously at Isaac who lay so still on the table. "There has to be something we can do."

"Without knowing what kind of poison or venom the other werewolf used I'm afraid we can't do anything but wait until it wears off. Then, hopefully, Isaac will begin to heal."

"But what if it takes hours? Days?" Jackson argued. "He can't possibly survive like this for that long."

"Jackson," Danny touched Jackson's arm and Jackson swore, breaking away from the group to pound his fist against a cabinet that cracked under the pressure.

"This is your fault," he looked up, crossed the room in an instant and pushed into Stiles's personal space. "If you had just kept your dick in your pants—"

"Hey," Peter's voice was sharp and he grabbed Jackson's elbow, yanking him back.

"Take it outside. Now." Derek's tone brooked no argument. "The three of you—Danny, too—get out. You're not helping and I don't want to deal with your shit right now."

"But—" Jackson started, but Derek growled, eyes flaring red and Jackson's gaze dropped to the ground, skittering away from Derek's. Without another word he turned around and walked out of the back room. Danny, Stiles, and Peter followed without comment.

As the door closed behind them Stiles heard Scott say, "I have an idea…"

Stiles sank into one of the chairs in the waiting room, still huddled in Peter's jacket. He should go home, clean up, and _sober_ up, because now that the rush of adrenaline and fear he'd been riding for the last hour had faded he still felt the effects of the beer, and combined with the ache in his skull he felt nauseous.

But he wouldn't leave until they knew Isaac was going to be okay, so he settled in to wait.

"So, Stiles," Peter asked, toying with a bit of glitter between his fingers. "Why do you have," he paused, squinted at Stiles, "A_ turkey_ painted on the side of your face?"

* * *

**AN:** Hey guys! Thanks for reading/reviewing :) It's so great to get feedback, and it means a lot to me that you'll take the time to do so. As an aside, my partner and I are currently in the process of moving to Vancouver within the next month so my writing/posting schedule might suffer. I'll try my best to keep updating every Thursday though. Thanks again!


	9. Chapter 9

**AN:** Canadian thanksgiving is always on a Monday and unfortunately I assumed the same of American thanksgiving, so just bear with me because it's too late to go back and change the dates in my previous chapters!

Chapter Nine

Standing in his room, Stiles could still feel the recoil of Chris's guns echoing in the bones of his hands. He'd left Allison's dad's place an hour ago, but his body still thrummed with tension and excitement.

When he'd finally made it home, around 7 am on Saturday morning, Stiles had stumbled up the stairs and, after a blisteringly hot shower to wash off the blood (and the turkey paint), he'd literally fallen into bed and slept for ten hours straight. When he'd woken up he'd had a quick dinner with his dad, carefully avoided mentioning that Isaac had nearly died the night before—and it was only due to some mysterious mystical shit that Scott and Derek had cooked up, then refused to tell anyone about, that Isaac had survived—and then he'd gone over to Chris Argent's.

He'd stayed with Chris until midnight and returned again on Sunday morning. Now, standing in his room, for the first time in quite possibly his entire life, Stiles felt powerful.

He could defend himself now. He wouldn't be left crumpled on the ground, or held at the mercy of a handful of claws. Chris hadn't given him a gun—and though Stiles thought he'd made a pretty good case for being allowed to have one, he'd privately agreed with Chris's decision that he needed a lot more practice first—but Stiles had walked away with a paper bag full of other paraphernalia. He wore one of them around his neck and when he returned to school there'd be a knife close at hand.

He wouldn't be weak again.

Stiles took a drink from the tumbler of his father's whiskey that sat on his desk, grimacing a little at the taste but enjoying the burn as it slid down his throat. His dad was working tonight, Scott and Isaac were having a night in with Melissa, and he had no idea what Jackson or Danny were doing, but he didn't care. He was feeling good, and strong, and he wasn't going to let that feeling go to waste.

The problem was, he reflected, tossing the rest of the whiskey back before trading his t-shirt for a dark blue button up, that the pack would never see him as anything other than fragile and human. They'd known him too long, and had seen him broken and bloody and bruised six times too many. If he'd told any of them how he was feeling now, that he felt _dangerous,_ they'd just smile kindly. While they might not refute his claim outright, they wouldn't believe it.

Looking at himself in the mirror, black jeans, dress shirt, and a new, confident light in his eyes, Stiles believed it. And he wanted someone else to believe it. Someone who wasn't picturing Stiles-the-potential-hostage or Stiles-the-liability. Someone who'd see him and think _careful_.

Which was why Stiles was heading to the Jungle.

Grabbing his jacket, which had been slung over a chair, he pulled it on and headed for the door.

* * *

"Buy you a drink?"

Stiles turned from where he was leaning against the bar. The guy behind him was older, tall, and clean-shaven, with a warm smile.

"Sure," Stiles moved over so the guy could squeeze in beside him. Since it was the Sunday before Thanksgiving Monday, the Jungle was packed and Stiles had been waiting for the bartender to make his way down to this end of the bar.

"I'm Raj," the guy offered, holding his hand out to Stiles.

"Stiles," Stiles returned, shaking Raj's hand. Raj held on a beat or two longer than necessary and Stiles bit into his bottom lip to hide a pleased smile.

"I haven't seen you here before," Raj leaned in to be heard over the music, his mouth close enough to Stiles's ear that Stiles could feel the lightest brush of lips.

"Just back in town for the holiday." Someone else wormed their way to the bar on Stiles's other side and Stiles found himself pushed forward against Raj, who slid a hand around Stiles's waist and kept it firm against his lower back, steadying him.

"Thanks," Stiles had to tilt his head back now to look up at Raj. That was new, he realized, surprised. Both Derek and Ethan were about his height, or close enough that Stiles never really found himself looking up at them. But Raj was tall, and lean, and Stiles could feel the heat of his long fingers splayed out against his skin and he relaxed into the touch.

"What'll you have?" The bartender had finally made his way over to them.

Stiles broke his gaze away from Raj. "Jack and coke."

"Make it two."

A minute later, drinks in hand, they broke free from the press of bodies around the bar. Raj kept his hand against the small of Stiles's back as they made their way through the crowd to a standing table near the dance floor.

"You said you're back for the holiday?"

Stiles nodded, taking a sip from the glass and rolling the sweetness of the coke around with his tongue. He'd been drinking whiskey straight all night, the ice and the cola were a nice change.

"And where is it you are when you're not back for the holidays?"

"College. Journalism," Stiles elaborated when Raj gave a small tilt of his head.

"You look the type," Raj grinned, his teeth flashing white against the darkness of his skin.

"Oh, yeah?" Stiles tilted his head, looking up at Raj through his lashes. If he'd been sober, or not at a club, or literally at any other point in his life, he'd have felt incredibly stupid. Stiles was not the kind of guy who did coy. He was awkward and clumsy and obvious. Except that tonight he didn't feel like any of those things. Tonight he felt a little wild and a little reckless and like he was more than capable of flirting the way he'd seen Lydia do a thousand times—effortlessly, easy as breathing.

"Yeah." Raj leaned closer, setting his glass down on the unsteady table and running light fingers over Stiles's wrist where it rested against the table, loosely cupping his glass. "You've got this vibe going."

"There's a journalist vibe?" Stiles teased, turning his wrist so that Raj's fingers could trail up the inside of his forearm.

"Well, no," Raj admitted, laughing, "But I was watching you for a bit before I came over. You were observing. Not like most people do, not watching just for the fun of it or because there's nothing better to do, but like you're… calculating. Like you're seeing everything and a part of you is figuring out exactly how to use it." His eyes were dark on Stiles's and Raj's tongue darted out to lick his lips. "It's hot. It makes me want to know how you'll use me."

Under Raj's fingers Stiles's pulse quickened. Raj stepped in, hand sliding from Stiles's wrist to his waist as Stiles's came up to twine around Raj's neck, pulling the taller man down as Stiles rose. Raj's lips brushed softly against Stiles's and Stiles made a hungry noise low in his throat, pressing in closer, but Raj kept his lips gentle and slow, his thumbs rubbing lazy circles over Stiles's hips through his shirt.

Stiles wanted those hands to dig in harder, to feel the sharp bite of teeth against his mouth. When he tried to deepen the kiss, tried to rub himself hot and urgent against Raj, Raj held him still, tongue sweeping lightly over Stiles's as his thumbs continued their soothing circles.

"Slow down," Raj murmured, leaning his forehead against Stiles's. "We've got all night."

"Actually," there was a voice from behind Stiles, as hard and unforgiving as the hand that suddenly clamped down on Stiles's shoulder, "You don't."

Raj frowned, straightening to his full height. "Excuse me?"

Stiles was trying to look around, to see who it was that had him in such an iron grip but the hand tightened and he let out a yelp of pain.

"Hey," Raj's voice was sharp. "Let him go."

"He's my nephew. My underage nephew, actually. So I suggest you be the one to go."

There'd been a break in the music and Stiles had been able to hear the speaker clearly—and he knew that voice. _Peter_.

Raj's eyes went wide. "Underage?" His hands dropped from Stiles's waist like they'd been burned. "I'm sorry, I didn't know. I, uh—sorry," and with that he backed away, hurriedly disappearing into the crowd.

"Dude," Stiles yanked out of Peter's grip, turning around to shove the werewolf back. Peter, predictably, didn't move. "I'm eighteen."

"Pity, then, that the drinking age is twenty-one." Peter smirked, picking up Stiles's drink and finishing it in one long swallow. Stiles flipped him off and turned back, scanning the room for Raj, but the writhing bodies of the dance floor and the staccato flash of light and lasers made individual faces all but indistinguishable.

"Come on," Peter reached out for Stiles's wrist, but the second his fingers made contact with Stiles's skin he jerked back, teeth bared in a hiss of pain and eyes flaring, for the briefest second, electric blue.

Stiles glanced down at where Peter was clutching his hand, and now it was Stiles's turn to smirk, long and slow and cocky. "So, it does work."

"What?" Peter's voice was low despite the jagged edge of anger.

Stiles reached up, fished the slender silver chain out from under his collar so that the small vial of mountain ash hung over his shirt instead of against his skin.

"Take it off."

Stiles rolled his eyes but, when Peter just raised his eyebrows expectantly, Stiles pulled the chain over his head and stuffed it in the pocket of his jeans. "Happy?"

"Getting there."

Stiles tried to step around Peter and back to the bar but Peter's hand shot out again and wrapped firmly around Stiles's wrist, jerking him to a halt. "No," he said.

"Yes." Stiles tried to yank his arm free, seething. "Let me go. I want to get a drink."

"You want a drink? Fine. But you're not staying here. Don't you think you've gotten yourself into enough trouble already this weekend?"

"Hence the mountain ash," Stiles snapped. "I'm not an idiot. I'm not here unprotected."

Peter tightened his grip on Stiles and began pushing his way through the crowd and towards the exit, keeping Stiles close at his side despite the younger man's attempts to pry loose. "You're not usually this stupid, Stiles. Our pack has several humans associated with it—you, and Danny, not to mention your father and the hunter—are you naive enough to think that Marcus doesn't have the same?" Stiles's fingers faltered from where they'd been tugging at Peter's.

"I—"

"—am sorry, Peter, for being such a thoughtless ass," Peter finished for him, guiding Stiles out of the front door and onto the street.

"That's not what—"

"Well, it should be." Peter didn't release Stiles until they'd reached a sleek silver car parked down the block. "Get in."

"I'm not going to—"

"_Stiles_," Peter snapped, "Get in the car."

With a huff of breath, Stiles eyed the alleyway to his right, debating whether or not to make Peter chase after him. He was under no illusions that he'd actually get away, but it might be satisfying to make the smug prick work for it. Then again, Stiles reflected, he didn't really relish the thought of being slammed into the rough asphalt or the brick walls that lined the alleyway, and if he ran he was pretty sure Peter would make that happen. Gritting his teeth, he yanked open the door of the car and slid in, making sure to slam it closed.

"There's no need to be childish," Peter remarked, starting the car and pulling away from the curb. Stiles slumped low in his seat, arms folded across his chest.

"That's what happens when you babysit," Stiles turned to Peter. "Is this guard-Stiles duty again? Who sent you? Scott? Derek?" The thought of either of them asking Peter to keep an eye on him made Stiles's skin crawl. He wondered how long Peter had been watching him for, how long he'd had someone's eyes on him and not even known.

"No one sent me, Stiles," amusement curled warm in Peter's voice. "You're overestimating your importance if you think that I've been following you."

Ouch. Except, "First you tell me I'm putting myself in danger, or whatever, and now I'm not important enough to merit being kept out of it?"

"Putting yourself needlessly at risk is foolish. You're jeopardizing a lot more than just your own safety. You're risking all of ours, too." Peter took his eyes off the road for a second and sent Stiles a disapproving look. "Frankly, if we'd thought you'd be idiotic enough to go off on your own, Scott or Derek probably would have assigned me or Jackson to you. But no one actually thought you could possibly be that unwise."

Stiles swallowed and looked out the window. It had started to rain and the water beaded on the glass, sliding down and blurring the city lights beyond. "If you weren't following me then why were you there?"

"I suspect for the same reason you were," Peter drawled.

Right, obviously. A flush coloured Stiles's cheeks and he kept his gaze firmly fixed out the window. "I didn't know you were gay."

"I'm not," the amusement was back, rich and honeyed. "I'm more of an… equal opportunist, if you will."

"Bisexual."

Peter gave a thoughtful hum. "Something like that. And you, Stiles?"

"I…" Stiles glanced over, but Peter's eyes were steady on the road. "I don't know." He hadn't really thought about it, about a label. He knew he liked guys, obviously, but he'd liked Lydia as well. And it wasn't like he stopped noticing girls when he was with Derek, or even when he'd been flirting with Ethan. So he guessed that made him bi. Or something like that.

"Do you want to go home?" Peter's voice interrupted Stiles's introspection.

"No," Stiles's response was immediate, uttered before he'd even consciously understood the question. The house was quiet and empty and frustratingly confining. Stiles was still riding on the high of the last couple days, of the feeling of weapons in his hands and the knowledge that he could be deadly. He couldn't bear sitting alone in his bedroom, reminded continuously of his high school self.

"Very well." Peter took a left turn and then several minutes later they were in a part of downtown Stiles had never been to. Peter pulled into an underground parking lot and after a moment found a space and parked.

Stiles reached down and unbuckled his seat belt, stepping out of the car and into the echoing concrete. "Is this where you live?"

Peter closed his door and locked the car, dropping his keys into the pocket of his leather jacket. "I don't live in a car park."

"Ha, ha," Stiles fell into step beside Peter as the older man made his way towards an elevator. "You know what I mean—is this your apartment?"

"Yes."

Stiles wasn't really sure how he felt about going up to Peter's apartment on his own. Not that he was _afraid _of Peter, per se. He didn't expect the werewolf to be engaging in some sort of elaborate plan to murder him. Though, actually, now that he thought about it, he wouldn't put that kind of thing past Peter. Not if Peter thought he could get something out of it. A shiver of apprehension ran up Stiles's spine.

The elevator doors opened with a ding and Peter gestured for Stiles to enter. Once they were both inside, Peter hit the button for the sixteenth floor and they began to rise.

"Scott said Isaac's healed just fine," Stiles said after the silence became unbearable. "No side affects from the poison and… and whatever it was he and Derek did."

Peter turned to Stiles, eyebrows raised in surprise. "They didn't tell you?"

"No. Why?" Stiles frowned. "Did they tell you?"

"No." Peter leaned back against the wall, his hands in the pockets of his jackets. "I suspect they're concerned about a… leak."

"A leak?"

"As it were. Marcus has to be getting his information from somewhere. I presume Scott, Derek, and Deaton want to limit the amount that's out there."

Stiles's lips thinned as he watched the numbers on the elevator go up. He didn't like Scott not trusting him. And Derek—well, Stiles didn't agree with any of Derek's choices as of late.

The thought of Derek still brought a tightness to his chest, an awareness of the depth of emotion Stiles still felt, the need that ached like a wound that wouldn't heal. He'd been living with it, so far. Dealing—or trying to. But he was sick of drowning in sorrow, of prodding at the loss until he broke down and begged.

They reached Peter's floor and the doors slid open, Stiles stepping through and then waiting for Peter to lead the way down the thickly carpeted hallway.

"This is nice," he commented when Peter stopped in front of a door with the number eight on it and pulled out a key.

"No need to sound so surprised," Peter said dryly, unlocking the door and stepping through. Stiles made a face behind Peter's back and followed him in.

The apartment was large and open, with uncurtained windows that provided a stunning view of downtown. Everything else seemed immaculate and white, save for tasteful hints of chrome and glass. Stiles had the strange impression that he'd entered an empty art gallery.

"Wine?" Peter had continued into the apartment and now stood behind a gleaming white countertop in the corner of the room that held the kitchen.

"Uh…" Stiles hesitated. He'd avoided it since Derek.

Peter looked over and tutted. "Are you really going to let my nephew sour something that you've, by all accounts, learned to enjoy and appreciate on your own?"

Stiles stiffened, affronted by the suggestion—even though that was, in fact, exactly what he'd been prepared to do. "I'll have a glass."

Peter favoured him with an approving look before turning to reach into a cupboard and pull out two wine glasses. He set them carefully on the counter and then crossed the kitchen, opening a glass cabinet that, when Stiles moved further into the room, revealed a couple dozen bottles of wine. Peter tapped his lips thoughtfully for a moment before reaching down and selecting a bottle.

Placing the bottle on the counter beside the glasses, Peter closed the cabinet and opened a drawer, taking out a corkscrew. Once the bottle was opened he poured himself a small amount, swirling the wine around the bottom of the glass before bringing it to his nose for an appreciative sniff and taking a sip. "Delightful," he pronounced, setting his glass down to pour one for Stiles.

Stiles took the offered glass and brought it to his lips. The wine hit his tongue in a heady rush that had his eyes sliding closed in pleasure.

"It's a cabernet franc," Peter answered Stiles's unasked question, approval heavy in his voice. "Do you like it?" he continued, even though the answer must have been obvious on Stiles's face.

"Yes, it has… oomph."

"Good." Peter moved around the counter, picking up the bottle in his free hand as he carried it and his glass of wine to the coffee table and couch that sat in front of a large fireplace. Stiles trailed after him, slightly apprehensive about taking red wine onto white carpet—and a white couch—but not wanting to stay standing awkwardly in the kitchen.

Peter sank gracefully onto one end of the couch and Stiles folded himself down onto the other, taking another sip of wine and trying not to read too much into the fact that he was alone in Peter's apartment, that no one else knew where he was, and that there was a part of him that found the whole thing as intoxicating as the wine.

The very, very good wine. Stiles took another sip, rolling the taste of it around in his mouth, against his tongue.

Peter watched him, eyes heavy-lidded with satisfaction at the naked pleasure on Stiles's face as he finally swallowed. "And to think," he said, smirking when Stiles licked a lingering drop of the wine off his lips. "You'd have let Derek take that away from you."

"What I do, or don't do, has nothing to do with—" he lurched against the name and hated himself for it. "With Derek," he finished, bringing the glass back up to his lips like he could hide the stumble.

Peter said nothing, simply raised his own glass and took a drink. On his way from the kitchen to the couch he'd hit a switch to turn the kitchen lights off, another to turn the fireplace on, and Stiles was suddenly aware of how dark the rest of the apartment was. Save for the twinkling of the city lights outside the large windows, the warm glow of the flames was the only light.

For someone who'd spent nearly a decade crippled due to fire, Peter seemed entirely at ease having one close by. Stiles's brow furrowed thoughtfully but he had another nagging question on his mind. "Why'd you bring me here?"

"You didn't want to go home."

Stiles frowned, leaning forward to set his now-empty wine glass on the coffee table. "Yeah, but we could have gone to another bar. Or," he frowned harder. "You could have just dropped me at Scott's."

"This is true. But I find I enjoy your company. And as for another bar, well," he leaned forwards and refilled Stiles's glass and then his own, "I have better wine," he said without a hint of modesty, settling into the couch and hooking an arm lazily over the back.

The wine _was_ excellent, bold and complex and by no means easily drunk. Stiles was under no illusions that he was any kind of connoisseur, but that didn't mean he was unable to enjoy the way the flavours collided robustly on his tongue. Stiles reached for his newly full glass and had another sip, relaxing against the arm of the couch and enjoying the heat from the fireplace. It was a nice change after the coolness of the night's rain.

Peter tilted his head to the side, watching Stiles with blue eyes that were suddenly curious. "If nothing you do has anything to do with my nephew, then why the guy at the bar?"

Stiles's fingers tightened around the fragile glass and he had to force himself to loosen them before he broke it and spilled what was no doubt obscenely expensive wine over an even more expensive couch. "Because I wanted him." The second the words had left his mouth Stiles wished he could have swallowed them back. He hadn't had wine in so long that it was affecting him more than usual, his tongue looser than he'd have liked.

"Really?" Disbelief coloured Peter's voice. "He's what you wanted."

"Yes," Stiles bit off, stubbornly. The guy—Raj, his brain supplied after a moment's hesitation—had been tall and lean and had thought Stiles was hot. Why wouldn't Stiles have wanted that?

"Him, though?" Peter pressed, eyebrows raised sceptically.

"Why not?" Stiles crossed his arms defensively across his chest.

"He didn't seem quite your… type."

"Oh, please," and now Stiles snorted with amusement. "What would you know about 'my type'?"

"I know he wasn't it."

"You're saying I don't like tall, dark, and handsome?" Stiles rolled his eyes, uncrossing his arms and taking a drink. "Cause, I gotta say…"

"It's nothing to do with how he looks, Stiles," Peter corrected. "You wouldn't have got what you wanted."

"Fucked? I'm pretty sure—"

Peter laughed. "Guys like that don't 'fuck'. They 'make love'." He brought his hands up in sarcastic finger quotes.

"And what's wrong with that?" Stiles shifted forward on the couch.

Peter levelled a sceptical look at him over his wine. "You're telling me you'd have been sated, you'd have been happy, with a night of gentle caresses and sweet nothings whispered in your ear?"

Stiles flashed back to the way Raj's lips and hands had been so light against his, stroking and soft in a way that had made Stiles twitchy with frustration. He imagined Raj would have continued in that vein, worked his way down Stiles's body with delicate fingers and eventually slow, gentle thrusts. Stiles's lips twisted involuntarily in distaste.

Watching Stiles's reaction, Peter smirked. "I thought as much."

There was a stubborn, churlish reply on the tip of Stiles's tongue but he held it back. Something about the way Peter was watching him, so unquestionably sure that he knew exactly what Stiles wanted, was making things low in Stiles's belly tighten.

"What, no scathing denial?" Peter mocked, pushing up from where he'd been lounging against the back of the couch. His movements were slow, deliberate, as he reached out, placed his glass soundlessly on the coffee table, and turned to face Stiles. Stiles's breath caught and held at the look in Peter's eyes.

"Though I suppose there's no sense in it," Peter's voice lowered. "Not when we both know what it is you're after."

Stiles's mouth had gone dry and he raised his wine glass in a hand that was less than steady—but before he could take a drink, attempt to quench his sudden thirst, Peter reached out and wrapped his fingers around the glass, around Stiles's hand. Stiles felt caught, trapped, and transfixed. _Tharn_, a distant part of his brain supplied, like the rabbits. Frozen in front of the car that'd run him down but mesmerized by the dazzle of lights.

"I could give it to you. You know I could." Peter seemed impossibly close, his broad shoulders blocking out everything but the shifting light of the fire, and even that served only to dance against the exposed skin of Peter's forearm, his neck, his face. Illuminating the hard lines and muscles. His fingers gently pried the glass out of Stiles's hand. Without breaking eye contact he placed the glass on the table.

Stiles still couldn't speak. Couldn't move. A part of him knew this was a bad idea, a mortifying thing to even be considering. This was _Peter_, Derek's uncle, and a man Stiles didn't even—

"Don't pretend you don't want it. Don't pretend that right now you're not thinking about how you don't trust me—and how that thought only makes you want it more." Peter's hand moved from where it had been resting on the back of the couch, slid around to Stiles's neck, his thumb rubbing against the place where Stiles's pulse beat against his skin like a wild thing trying to escape. "Because you don't know what I'd do. You can't trust that I'd stop if you asked. That I wouldn't just keep _pressing_," and his thumb dug in, constricting the flow of blood so that Stiles's head swam in a sudden, dizzying rush.

"Peter," Stiles meant for his voice to be firm, a hard line of _no_, but instead it came out as a plea. For what, Stiles wasn't sure, because Peter was right. He had Stiles half-hard already, and all he had done was push a hand against Stiles's neck.

But with that came the knowledge that Peter could wrap that hand around his throat and cut off Stiles's air completely. He could do that, and if he did that, Peter might not stop until Stiles was dead. That thought shouldn't have sent a spark of black down Stiles's spine. Shouldn't have made his heart pound with excitement, his skin ache for the sharpness of teeth.

Peter's hand lifted, the pressure on Stiles's pulse easing. Stiles tried not to but couldn't help the way he swayed towards Peter as Peter's hand pulled away.

Peter's teeth flashed, showing white and gleaming before he leaned in and crowded Stiles back against the arm of the couch, one hand hard on Stiles's arm to hold him there and the other between Stiles's legs, palming Stiles's now fully hard cock through his jeans. "Say yes," Peter ordered, lips so close to Stiles's that Stiles could feel them move against his own. "Say yes."

"Yes."


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

There was a dark, pulsing need in him now for the pain Peter had promised. Stiles's head fell back in abject surrender when Peter surged forwards to devour his mouth with a savage kiss. This was what he'd wanted. He'd known, even if he hadn't been willing to admit it at the time, that Raj wouldn't have been able to give it to him.

Peter's stubble rasped against Stiles's lips and Stiles shuddered underneath him. His free hand reached up to clutch at Peter's back, to drag him closer so that Stiles could buck up into the hand rubbing against his cock. He was drowning in sensation, in the urgency of Peter's lips against his and the pressure on his arm, where he could feel Peter's fingers digging into his muscle with no regard for Stiles's comfort. The pain of it was exquisite and Stiles could feel himself letting go. His mind with its near constant barrage of thoughts and questions and theories was going blank and empty, turning over control to his body so all Stiles could do was _feel_.

Feel Peter's teeth close over his bottom lip and pull until Stiles whimpered, feel Peter's hands move up and unbutton Stiles's shirt with agonizing slowness, feel the hot trail of Peter's tongue follow the bared skin down to Stiles's right nipple where he paused, fingers continuing to pull open the shirt, tongue laving lightly over the hard flesh until Stiles cursed.

He tried to reach up, tried to drag Peter still closer but he was tangled in the arms of his shirt and couldn't do anything but groan in frustration as Peter's teeth grazed delicately over the sensitive peak. Peter's hand moved lower, flicking open the button on Stiles's jeans and drawing the zipper down, sliding in past Stiles's boxers to wrap around Stiles's cock. Stiles tried to buck into the contact but Peter was crowded so close between his thighs that Stiles couldn't move. He was trapped between the arm of the couch and Peter's body, unable to do anything but writhe helplessly.

"Oh, Stiles," Peter breathed against Stiles's nipple, pausing for a moment to wrap his lips around the bud and suck until Stiles's entire body shook with need, "I'm so glad you said _yes_." He swept the flat of his tongue against Stiles's nipple and then bit down, hard.

The suddenness of the pain forced a cry out from between Stiles's gritted teeth at the same time as his body arched up into Peter's mouth, desperate for the feeling of teeth digging bruises into his skin to continue. He could feel the rumble of Peter's approval in his throat, and when Peter rolled his eyes up to look at Stiles as his hand began to move over Stiles's cock in firm, controlled strokes, Stiles had to bite into his own cheek hard enough to draw blood to stop himself from coming.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted to see you like this," Peter commented. He pulled back to admire the large, purpling bruise that was beginning to form around Stiles's nipple. Stiles's face was red and flushed, the frantic, abortive movements of his hips betraying his desperation. Peter's hand on Stiles's cock squeezed, and Stiles's eyes rolled back into his head, his mouth falling open and his fingers scrabbling uselessly at the couch.

Peter moved back, his hand pulling out of Stiles's jeans and reaching casually for his glass of wine. Stiles gave a choked sound of protest, half-rising from where he was sprawled back against the arm of the couch to see why Peter had stopped.

"Get up," Peter said, taking an unhurried swallow of the wine.

Stiles stared at him, chest heaving as he tried to regain some semblance of control. When Peter did nothing but raise an expectant eyebrow, Stiles flushed, and struggled to pull his shirt back up over his arms so he could refasten his jeans.

"No." Peter's blue eyes hardened, sudden and icy. "Did I say you could get dressed?"

"I…" Stiles floundered, unsure now of what Peter wanted. "I'm—"

"Did I say," Peter's voice was slow and measured, each word carrying its own threat, "That you could speak?"

Stiles's mouth had opened again but he closed it with a snap. He supposed he could play by Peter's rules, though the fact that Peter expected unquestioning obedience—without some kind of prior discussion—rankled.

"I said, _get up_," Peter repeated, and his hand came down in a sudden, open-palmed slap against Stiles's thigh where he lay still sprawled open on the couch.

The sting was sharp, even through the fabric of Stiles's jeans, but more than anything it was the shock of the blow that had Stiles tumbling uncoordinated and clumsy off the couch. Peter had _hit_ him. The same kind of thoughtless swat you gave a dog when it tried to climb onto furniture. Humiliation coloured Stiles's cheeks and he had to make a conscious effort to keep his eyes down as he stood, jeans and underwear sliding halfway down his hips, his unbuttoned shirt barely clinging to his elbows, lest Peter see the burning anger that Stiles was trying to bank.

There was a part of him that was insisting this was too much, that Peter wanted what Stiles couldn't—wouldn't—give. But at the same time, Stiles's cock was pressed hard and flushed against his stomach and, if anything, the shock and shame of the slap had only made Stiles's desperate need increase.

"Don't make me repeat myself again." Peter took another sip of the wine before placing it back on the table and leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. His face was level with Stiles's groin and he let out a long, hot breath against Stiles's cock, watching with pleased eyes as Stiles's hips twitched helplessly.

"You make such a pretty picture," Peter mused. Standing, he ran a hand up Stiles's cock and over his belly, trailing up to press against his bruised nipple so forcefully that Stiles had to choke back a noise of pain. "All that pale skin…" he trailed off, his hand rising to wrap around the back of Stiles's neck and tighten. Stiles felt his eyes fall shut, a tremor of desire running through his body as Peter stepped in closer and licked into Stiles's mouth.

He could feel Peter now, the press of the older man's cock hot and eager on the skin of Stiles's bared hip, even through the denim of his jeans. Stiles shifted forward to rub into it but Peter's grip on his neck held him still. The frustrated sound from Stiles's lips was swallowed by Peter's mouth.

With one last nip, Peter pulled back and the pressure on the back of Stiles's neck increased until Stiles buckled under it, dropping to his knees. Peter's hand moved from Stiles's neck to fist in his hair and he yanked Stiles's head back, baring his throat so that Peter could look down the long pale line of him.

With his hands still caught behind his back in the shirt, his thighs trapped in the waistband of his jeans, and his eyes wide and clear, Stiles looked like a debauched angel. His mouth was red and swollen from Peter's lips and his chest rose and fell in that delightful too-fast and too-shallow rhythm of breath that said _prey._ The livid bruise around his nipple stood out like a beacon in the midst of so much unmarked flesh.

Peter's free hand came up to trace Stiles's lips, thumb sliding into his silky heat. Peter gave a low purr of approval when Stiles, whiskey-hot eyes fixed on Peter's, slid his tongue against the pad of Peter's finger.

"God, you've a mouth on you," Peter pulled his thumb out, slicking Stiles's lips with his own saliva before pressing in again with his two forefingers, pulling Stiles's mouth open when Stiles tried to close his lips around them and suck, "Never can seem to keep it shut. Always running it off like the rest of us have nothing better to do than listen. Sarcastic and lippy without an ounce of respect for your elders. Or," he pushed his fingers back farther, pressing Stiles's tongue down so Stiles gagged, "Your betters." He withdrew his fingers, cupping Stiles's face with the same hand and watching with amusement when Stiles tried to flinch away from the wet touch.

"And yet," Now Peter's hands both lifted, coming to unfasten the button on his jeans and drag the zipper down with agonizing slowness, "Here you are." He reached in and pulled out his cock, fingers still slick with saliva. "Neither of our so-called Alphas, working together _or_ apart, it seems, can manage to keep you under control." He shuddered, pressing a thumb against the slit. "But I've got you on your knees and begging for it like a whore." Pleasure rolled thick and rich in his voice and where Stiles's mind had been blissfully blank only seconds before, something clicked into place.

This wasn't about sex, for Peter, he realized. It was not about desire for lips and hands and skin, this was about power. Plain and simple. Not the kind of power play that came with games like this, not the kind that was gladly given and just as gladly returned when everyone lay sprawled and sated and sweaty, but the power that someone _took_ with force or cunning, glorying in the mess left behind.

Stiles's brow furrowed, coming back to himself piece by piece as Peter continued to stroke and began to press forward, the head of his cock no more than a breath away from Stiles's lips. There was a part of Stiles, a part larger than he would like to admit, that took this new understanding and wanted to curl and twine around it. Wanted to let Peter take everything he could and more. Wanted to let Peter further inside his mind and his body until there was nothing left of Stiles but the raw, aching need to give Peter anything and everything he could ask for.

But the rest of him, the parts of him that were the Stiles he wanted to be, the Stiles he chose every day to be, were stronger. He would not act as a pawn in Peter's game, as some kind of trophy that could be won from Scott or Derek to sate Peter's lust for power. Stiles was pack. And he could not do this to his pack.

"No." Stiles was pushing back, scrambling to his feet and pulling his clothes on even as he could taste the brush of Peter's cock on his mouth. "_No_."

"'No'?" Peter stepped forward, a growl slipping from his lips. "We're past 'no', Stiles."

"No," Stiles shook his head, his voice firm and controlled as he tucked himself back into his pants, fastening them decidedly. "I'm sorry, Peter, but… this isn't what I want."

"It is." Peter said, certainty ringing in his voice. "You can't hide that from me, I can smell how badly this is _exactly_ what you want."

Stiles let out his breath in a huff, fingers clumsy as he buttoned up his shirt. "Maybe, yeah. Sure."

"Not 'maybe'. You want this. You've wanted this for—"

"That doesn't matter," Stiles cut him off, moving around the couch to the door, "I'm not going to be ruled by my baser impulses. I'm not going to let my body control my mind. I'm not that guy." He was speaking more to himself now than to Peter, and the more he spoke the more sure he was that he was doing the right thing.

"Derek did a number on me, there's no denying that, but I'm not going to keep letting myself drown and then lay that at his feet."

Peter's jaw was clenched tight and he was coming around the couch with dark intention in his pale blue eyes. "Stiles," he said, significantly.

"Hey," Stiles reached into his pocket, wrapped his hand around the thin silver chain and pulled it out so that it gleamed in the light of the flames. Peter snarled, fury sudden and hideous on his face. "I'm sorry," Stiles repeated, because he knew Peter wasn't going to forgive him for this. For walking out his door with the prize he'd thought was his to claim. But Stiles wasn't going to do anything more that would harm his pack.

"Thank you," he said as he finally reached the door, pulling it open with a glance back over his shoulder at Peter, standing in the middle of the living room, eyes glowing like embers against the darkness of the cityscape. "For the wine."

* * *

It was cold outside and Stiles shoved his hands into his pockets, head ducked to try and keep the rain out of his eyes. He still had no idea where he was, not exactly, but he was familiar enough with the layout of the town that he knew if he headed north he could make it deeper downtown and hail a cab. And if he went east… well, east would land him in the warehouse district. It would be a walk, from here, but Stiles felt like he needed it. Needed to clear his head and needed to let the rain wash away the thin layer of grime that he felt clinging to his skin.

For which he had no one to blame but himself—and he was beginning to realize that now. He'd been holding on to the idea that he was a victim, that he'd been wounded and hurt and it was all Derek's fault. But Ethan and Peter? Stiles had brought that on himself. He'd tried to bury what he felt in other men, other bodies, and it was destroying him. Worse than that, his heartbreak was destroying the pack. And that had to stop. Stiles wasn't going to let himself be crippled by it any more.

He might still need Derek with every atom in his body, might never stop reaching for him in the night, but he'd sure as hell stop being so goddamn _sad_ about it. If he couldn't control what he felt, he could at least control what he did about it.

And he'd do it in a way that didn't hurt anyone else.

* * *

When he arrived at Derek's place, forty-five minutes later, soaking wet and just beginning to shiver, he was grateful to find out that the code to the warehouse hadn't changed. Hunching over the keypad and blinking the rainwater out of his eyes, Stiles punched in 9653 and as soon as he heard the lock snick open he opened the door far enough for him to slip through. He closed it behind himself, not bothering to be quiet. He knew that Derek would be home, and Derek he would know that someone was there. He'd probably also know it was Stiles—by the sound of his heartbeat, or the particular rhythm of his walk, or god knows what else.

Irritation rippled down his spine at that thought as he made his way across the first floor and towards the elevator. Unlike Stiles, Derek wouldn't be caught unaware of his presence. He wouldn't be minding his own business in his kitchen only to turn around and have Stiles standing in the doorway. Oh no, Derek would have plenty of time to prepare himself to see Stiles. Not that he'd need it, because it wasn't like Derek actually _cared_.

Which was why, Stiles reminded himself, this was the ideal solution.

Hitting the button for Derek's floor, Stiles leaned back against the wall of the elevator and ran a hand through his wet hair to try to keep it from dripping into his eyes. He wished he hadn't forgotten his jacket at the club. His shirt was clinging uncomfortably to his skin and there was nothing worse than the feeling of wet jeans. Then again, his jacket wasn't exactly a raincoat, so it probably would have gotten just as soaked through and then he'd be stuck with another wet layer and—well, Stiles was just avoiding the issue at hand.

Pushing himself up from the wall, Stiles straightened as the elevator doors opened, and stepped out.

"Why are you here, Stiles?" Derek stood framed in the doorway of his loft, wearing nothing but a pair of loose pyjama bottoms that rode low on his hips and a white t-shirt that did nothing to hide the curves of his muscles or the dark halos of his nipples. Not to mention that, in the gap between where the t-shirt ended and the pyjamas started, Stiles could see the thick line of hair that he knew lead straight down to Derek's cock.

Stiles swallowed the saliva that had pooled in his mouth and focused his eyes on Derek's face. Ignoring Derek's stony expression, he pushed past the Alpha werewolf and into the loft.

"I didn't say you could come in."

"Yeah, well you didn't stop me either," Stiles pointed out. The first floor of Derek's place looked precisely the same as it had the last time Stiles had been there—the night Marcus had made his presence known. Stiles didn't know why he'd expected anything different. Leaning against the back of the couch, he waited for Derek to close the door.

"Did something happen?" Derek crossed the room to stand in front of Stiles, his arms folded across his chest.

"You tell me."

Derek's eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared, scenting the air around Stiles. Stiles kept his face neutral, his body language relaxed and easy, despite the tension that thrummed through his veins.

"What did you do?" Derek snapped, the briefest glint of scarlet surfacing in his green eyes. "Or should I ask _who_?"

"Peter," Stiles admitted, evenly. "Almost."

"Almost." There was a dangerous lack of volume in Derek's voice. Stiles knew he was walking on thin ice and couldn't help grinning.

"He didn't fuck me." His grin widened as Derek's hands clenched into fists at his sides.

"He marked you." It wasn't a question, and for a moment Stiles was confused. Marked him? Peter hadn't—

But then Derek was barely an inch away from him and Stiles hadn't even seen him move. Before Stiles could even register the closeness, Derek's hands had fisted in his shirt and he'd torn open Stiles's wet clothing, bearing his chest. Stiles jerked forwards with the force.

They looked down at the same time, at the dark circle of flesh around Stiles's nipple and Derek made a disgusted sound, taking a step back and tossing the remains of Stiles's shirt at him.

"What are you trying to do, Stiles? Are you trying to get back at me? To hurt me? I wouldn't have thought you'd sink this low. _Peter_—" Derek broke off, lips curled with scorn.

"You might find this hard to believe," Stiles matched scorn with scorn, "But not everything I do is about you."

"This isn't just another version of a drunk dial?" Derek arched an eyebrow. "Another bid for attention?"

"Fuck you." Stiles stepped forwards, hurt fuelling the anger that was beginning to boil underneath his skin.

"Because it smells like you've been getting plenty of attention." Derek came forwards to meet Stiles, leaning in and sniffing deliberately at Stiles's ear where, earlier, Raj's lips had rested.

"Derek," Stiles warned, bringing his hands up to push firmly at Derek's chest, but the werewolf didn't budge. His nose ran down Stiles's neck, across his shoulder, and then he pulled back so abruptly that Stiles, who'd still been trying to push Derek away, nearly lost his balance.

"Argent? Him, too?" Revulsion was ugly in Derek's voice. "Is there anyone who hasn't had their hands all over you?"

Stiles's mouth dropped open, incredulity leaving him breathless.

"Did you think if you showered after I wouldn't still be able to smell him on you?"

Fury wound around Stiles's throat in a choking vice. If Derek actually thought Stiles would—

"So you figured after your third rejection you'd show up here? That you'd finally get the fuck you're so desperate for?"

With that, Stiles finally found his voice, and with it came an anger so blinding that he felt eerily calm. "Yeah." He gave a careless shrug. "After all, we've done it once, haven't we?" And Derek had made it crystal clear that that was all it had been. A fuck. And if Derek could be blithe about it than so could Stiles.

Besides, it was a solution. A quick fix to Stiles's heartache. If he couldn't stop wanting Derek, then at least he'd be in control of the how and the when. He'd get his hit, his fuck, and he'd be able to function normally until the next time he needed it. There would be no weak spots for another Ethan to exploit, no opportunities for Peter to get one up on Derek or Scott at Stiles's expense.

"Alright." Derek's eyes met Stiles's, cold and challenging, like he didn't expect Stiles to actually go through with it. He gestured to the iron staircase. "You know where the bedroom is."

It was so much like the first time Stiles had asked Derek to fuck him that Stiles nearly laughed. But this time he wasn't going to run. He wasn't going to be scared off by Derek's bullshit posturing. This time, Stiles was going to call Derek's bluff.

Dropping what was left of his shirt to the floor, Stiles brought his hands to the button on his waistband and popped it open, slid down the zipper, and slowly peeled out of his wet jeans. His shoes, boxers, and socks followed until he stood naked, with water still dripping from his hair down his skin, in front of Derek.

A muscle in Derek's jaw clenched, though he kept his eyes steady on Stiles's. But even Derek couldn't control the way his pupils had dilated, the black swallowing the green until all that remained was a thin rim of iris.

With a smirk, Stiles turned and made his way upstairs.

* * *

**AN: **As I mentioned a couple chapters ago, I'm in the middle of a move and unfortunately life has been pretty hectic lately so I'm going to have to scale back my posting to every other week. Hopefully this will let me catch up a bit and within a few weeks I'll get back to updating every Thursday. Thank you for your patience!


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